


Might taste sweet but that's not love

by kawuli



Series: Smiles and Promises [10]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: (except not actually 'post'), 72nd Hunger Games, Canon Compliant, District 6, Eating Disorders, Forced Prostitution, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, canon-typical horribleness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-22
Packaged: 2018-05-21 06:51:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kawuli/pseuds/kawuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Phillips gets the polling data and the public opinion just like every year but as they come up to the 72nd Games it's different. He knew it wasn't going to be his choice but he'd hoped, stupidly, that they'd give his girl a little time. No such luck.</i>
</p>
<p>  <i>He doesn't want her sitting in the control room watching kids die--not ever but especially not this year, not when she's still this close to it. Not when all signs point to the seventy-second being a true damn bloodbath.</i></p>
<p>Rokia's first games as a Victor and a Mentor. Phillips' first Games juggling what the tributes need with what his girl needs. Brutus provides advice. Lyme has to talk about <i>feelings</i>. Beetee and Wiress provide sanctuary and distractions, and Finnick runs interference when he can.</p>
<p>Rokia's just trying to make it through in one piece.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. They don't want you

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the warnings. Being a Victor is not a good thing.
> 
> (Details of the 72nd Games follow lorata's [Ambrosia](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1616687) )

Phillips gets the polling data and the public opinion just like every year but as they come up to the 72nd Games it's different.

It's different because when he reads a lobbyist explaining that Capitol citizens have gotten bored, after one winner who survived by treading water followed by another who won with tricks and traps, after two years without a spectacular final battle. People want something different, they want excitement and brutality and a return to tradition, the last few Arenas have been too easy. Phillips laughs when he reads that, harsh and without humor, and he looks across the yard toward Rokia's house, where a light's still on in the kitchen.

Easy. Sure.

But then there's the other memo that came, slipped in along with the information any mentor can request even if almost none of them bother. The memo from Victor Affairs, stamped with the seal of the President but signed by the Games Coordinator because it's not worth the President's time. "Mentoring arrangements for District Six for the Seventy-Second Hunger Games," it says, typed across the top of the paper. Buried in Capitol politeness is the request: Phillips and Rokia will serve as mentors for their district's tributes. The Capitol wants to see if there's such a thing as beginner's luck.

Phillips knows better than to think the odds would ever be in their favor. Closest anyone's come to beginner's luck is District Two, and that sure as hell isn't about chance. District Two keeps their victors home first year out, cocooned in a Village full of people who look out for them, and they mentor when and if they're ready for it. He knew it wasn't going to be his choice--the last time anything about Rokia was his choice was before the Victory Tour--but he'd hoped, stupidly, that they'd wait.

No such luck.

He doesn't want her sitting in the control room watching kids die--not ever but especially not this year, not when she's still this close to it.

Not when all signs point to the seventy-second being a true damn bloodbath.

She's the one who brings it up, finally, a couple weeks before the Reaping. It's late, her sisters must be sleeping. She knocks on his door, lets herself in with the key he gave her, stands in the entryway with her arms crossed.

"Are you going to tell me what I have to do?" she asks, challenge in her eyes. "I don't want to talk about it either but apparently I'm supposed to be a mentor and I don't know the first thing about any of it."

Phillips sighs, motions her over to the table. She sits with her knees drawn up to her chest, and despite the muggy summer heat she's wearing long sleeves, a too-big shirt she pulls over her hands and balls in her fists.

She's not acting like it's fine, for once, and he supposes that's a good thing. "Rokia," he says, hesitant, while she watches. "I don't want you mentoring."

"Pretty sure we don't get a choice, Phillips," she says, mocking. "President's orders."

He sighs. "Yeah," he says, "but look, I don't want you worrying about it."

Now he's caught in a full-on glare, and she shifts to sit up, leaning across the table. "I'm not made of glass, Phillips, come on."

"I know you're not," and oh, doesn't he. "It's just a bad idea."

"You did it, your first year."

"Yeah," he says, sighs. "Wasn't much choice. You know the others."

"And you managed," Rokia says, pressing, "So I can too."

Phillips pauses. He's known Rokia's stubborn since he first met her at the Reaping--and it seems like much longer than a year ago, now--but this is obstinate, childish. "Rokia, I know you can, I just don't think you should."

She looks down. "You don't have to take care of me, Phillips," she says, voice flat. "I can take care of myself."

Phillips sighs. "Of course you can."

She glances back up at him, smiles, rueful. "But you're just trying to help."

"Yeah."

She runs a hand through her hair, pulls her knees back up. "I have to go, though," she says. "I might as well be useful."

Phillips looks down at the papers spread out on the table, looks up at Rokia, tired, tense, still pushing herself to do more, and he shakes his head. "Kid, there's not going to be much either of us can do this year."

She bites her lip. "Because of me?"

"It's always long odds," he says. She nods, looks around the room.

"A whole year," she says, looking out the window towards her house. "It's weird."

Phillips smiles. "Seems longer and shorter, all at once."

"Yeah," she says, still looking out into the distance. Then she shakes herself, looks back at him. "Anyway," she says, getting to her feet. "I should get back."

They haven't solved anything, but it is getting late. "Yeah," he says, gets up to walk her home.

She unlocks the door, turns back to look at him. "Thanks Phillips," she says.

"Anytime," he says, reflex, not sure quite what she's thanking him for, and she smiles and goes inside.

\--

It's just like the Tour. The stylists, the prep teams, the photographers, it's all familiar, until she gets to the square. It's eerily quiet, a cough here and there, feet shuffling, whispers. Rokia's eyes drag toward clusters of old classmates with vaguely familiar faces, expressions a mix of fear and dull, drugged apathy. There's always a few more overdoses the night before the Reaping, and Peacekeepers are dragging in stragglers still--sleepy eyed, slack-limbed kids. A few bottles are going around the square, the Peacekeepers let it go so long as the kids actually show up.

Phillips is a reassuring presence beside her, while the mayor welcomes everyone, the video plays, and Rokia looks past the square to the factories on the horizon and imagines disappearing, evaporating into the smog.

Linsea jolts her back, says her name in that high pitched Capitol whine, reminds everyone that clearly the odds have been in District Six's favor lately. And then she reaches long, steel-grey fingernails into the bowl and pulls out a name. "Safiatou Diallo!" She beams, while the cameras find a tiny, dark-skinned twelve-year-old whose face goes slack-jawed and blank. "Well, come on up!" Linsea chirps, and the girl swallows and steps forward, one step, then another, until she's standing in front of Rokia, so close Rokia can see her shaking. Again, for the boys. "Ryan Siler!" A gangly fifteen-year-old, bony wrists sticking out of his reaping shirt, too-long black hair falling into his eyes. He glances towards the girls' side, but the cameras don't find whoever he was looking for. Linsea doesn't have to call twice, and he walks slowly, carefully up the stairs to stand on the stage.

Rokia feels a hand on her elbow and lets out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The two kids shake hands, and Phillips steps forward to help show them into the Justice Building.

Rokia watches for a minute as the crowd disperses, kids finding each other to laugh and hug and celebrate another year of safety. Sidi from Sal's shop catches her eye and waves before linking arms with his friends and heading out into the city.

Phillips is standing in the hallway with Linsea, waiting to see who will come for the kids. Before long Ryan's parents come, holding tight to each other's hands. The father nods toward Phillips and Rokia before they step into the room. As they're leaving, another woman comes, small and dark, hands scarred and callused, and a faint smell of dynamite clings to her clothes, which are the rough, sturdy canvas Rokia remembers from childhood. The woman's hair is braided into elaborate patterns, and Rokia's breath catches on the memory of fingers in her hair, admonitions to just sit still five more minutes, tracing the lines over her scalp until Grandma tugged her hands down. Her North Country accent just confirms what Rokia could tell at a glance. She stands straight-backed, head held high, but her voice shakes when she asks, "Where's my girl?" Phillips shows her to the door. When the Peacekeepers close it behind her, he glances over at Rokia, one eyebrow raised.

"I was born up north," Rokia says, and she can hear her own vowels twisting to match the woman's accent. "We came down here when I was 8." Phillips looks back toward the door where Safiatou and her mother are saying their goodbyes, and his face flashes furious for just a second before he smooths it away. When the woman comes out three minutes later she is still dry eyed, still standing straight, and she looks Rokia in the eye.

"You look out for her," she says. Rokia just nods.

When the hour is up the Peacekeepers lead the kids out into the hallway. Ryan is scowling furiously, arms crossed over his chest. Safiatou is crying silently, looking away and swiping at her eyes. Rokia puts an arm around her shoulders, not thinking about anything beyond the fact that she's a little girl and she's upset, and Safiatou startles for just a second before leaning into Rokia's side. Phillips gives her a look she can't quite read and motions them all out to the train. Linsea is already there, fussing with Licina over the schedule in her usual high pitched whine. When she comes over to greet them, Safiatou shakes herself free of Rokia and stands straight. Just like her mother told her to, probably. No reason to let them see you weak. The girl holds out a hand and Linsea takes it, smiling. "Pleased to meet you, ma'am," Safiatou says. Her voice is quiet but clear. Ryan just glares when Linsea holds out a hand towards him, and she sighs and turns back to the table. "We'll get in late tonight," she says, "You kids should make yourselves comfortable." Rokia turns to show Safiatou to her room, but Linsea calls after her. "Rokia, stay here please, we need to go over your schedule."

Rokia stops, smiles at the girl, who follows Phillips and Ryan back toward the tribute rooms, then turns back to the table. "Much of it is contingent on how long your mentoring duties last," Linsea says, matter-of-fact. "I am guessing that will not be long." Rokia takes a deep breath. "And during the training period of course you will have some portions of the day free, while the tributes are training, so Victors Affairs has scheduled a few consultations, private appointments in the evenings, it should be fairly manageable." Phillips comes back in as she's finishing, moving to stand behind Rokia's left shoulder. Linsea glances up at him and bites her lip. "Interest is still high, we should take advantage of that, it can only be to the benefit of the district and its tributes."

"Yeah, sure Linsea," Phillips says, "and I'm sure you are managing the schedule brilliantly, but right now I would like to talk to Rokia."

Rokia follows him to the rear of the train, where they can watch the cornfields of District Nine flash past in never ending seas of green. Rokia looks away from the ever present horizon. She feels exposed. Good practice, in any case. "Rokia," Phillips says, watching her, serious. "You can't let yourself get attached." Rokia just stares at him. It's one thing to hear Linsea talking about the tributes like they're a distraction from the more important things on the schedule but it's surprising to get the same from Phillips. Is she just supposed to give up now before they've even started? She thinks back to last year. "You talked to me," she says. It had been annoying, how he wouldn't leave her alone. Phillips purses his lips, glances into the corners of the room.

"You were the best shot I'd had in a long time," he says. "Yeah, I liked you," and it's absurd but Rokia smiles just a little at that, "but I also wanted to help you every way I could. And if you hadn't made it, it would've hurt like hell." Rokia meets his eyes. There's memory there she doesn't know, can't understand, but it's real. She looks away.

"What am I supposed to do? I can't just ignore her. Them. They're kids, they're scared, I can't —"

"Hey, Rokia, take a breath," Phillips says, and Rokia sucks in a lungful of air, lets it hiss out between her teeth. "You don't ignore them," he says, "but you have to keep some distance. You have to keep yourself safe, kid." His voice is gruff.

Rokia just stares at him. It's all well and good to say it here, where there's nothing but cornfields and Snow's surveillance to hear, but those are real kids, who are really hurting, and he's asking her to--what, put on an act as if they were Capitol people to convince, keeping everything superficial and meaningless, and suddenly Rokia just can't sit here anymore. She gets up and walks out, finds her own room and curls into the corner, head in her hands. Phillips leaves her alone for a while, and when the knock comes on her door, she stands up, straightens her clothes, runs her fingers through her hair, and tells him to come in.

He looks at her, half hesitant. "Rokia, I—"

But she stops him. "It's fine, Phillips," she says, "I get it. I'll be careful." She smiles at him, heading out toward the lounge. "It's all just Games, I'll figure it out."

He stays still as she waks out.

\--

They get in late, just like always, and Phillips leads the way through the tunnels from the station to the Training Center. The little girl is holding Rokia's hand, eyes huge, and Rokia says something quiet that makes the little one's face crack into a hesitant smile. He doesn't know what more he can say to Rokia, doesn't know how to make her listen. The boy is still sullen and silent, narrowed eyes and tight shoulders and Phillips hates how relieved he is that at least it's only one of the tributes tailor-made to break his girl's heart.

The next morning the tributes go off to Remake and so does Rokia, and Phillips is sitting alone in the Six rooms, looking over the early odds as if they'll tell him anything he didn't already know. Brutus has a girl in this year, and Phillips shakes his head at the image of the huge mentor looming over his tribute and glaring at the cameras. It'd be easier if Brutus had stayed home this year. Phillips wouldn't have any trouble avoiding Callista in the halls, but Brutus, well, Phillips hasn't talked to him since the Victory Tour and doesn't know what he'd say, especially not with Brutus bringing a pretty girl with a good chance of walking out and a guarantee that walking out wouldn't be its own punishment.

But damn if he couldn't use some advice.

He's staring at the TV, not really paying attention, when there's a knock on the door. Phillips starts and opens it, and Lyme's standing there, arms crossed, smirking at him.

She's brushing past him before he can get out a hello, turns to face him in the common room. "I can't believe I'm matchmaking for a couple of grown-ass men, but--" she shrugs, raises her eyes to the ceiling. "Brutus thinks you're pissed at him, and he doesn't want to bother you, and a bunch of other bullshit I tried very hard not to listen to."

Phillips stares at her. It's not that he doesn't know Lyme, she's come out with him and Brutus a few times, but he's never known her to mess around in other peoples' business like this. Which, come to think of it, might be why she's glaring holes in the walls.

"I'm not pissed at him," Phillips says, "I just--"

Lyme raises a hand. "I am not carrying messages around like some kind of--I don't even know. You know where to find him."

Phillips raises an eyebrow, and Lyme just shakes her head as she heads for the door.

"See you around," he manages, as he lets her out. She snorts.

"Yeah, you too."

Even after that Phillips stares at the phone for a long time before picking it up and dialing the Two floor.

Brutus picks up on the third ring. "Yeah?"

"It's Phillips."

There's a pause. "Hey, Phillips."

"You wanna grab a drink tonight, after the Parade?"

Brutus hesitates. "Can't tonight. Tomorrow though, after the kids are in bed?"

"Yeah, sure." Not like Phillips has anything better to do.

"See you then," Brutus replies, and the line goes dead.

Rokia gets back just before the parade, Remade and stunning and blank-faced, and she perches on the edge of the couch while the prep teams fuss over Phillips, nothing but basic hair and makeup for him, a change of clothes so he looks presentable, as they say. Linsea fusses around until they're declared ready and they go to meet the kids. The stylists are beaming as they herd them out, in what someone from the Capitol thinks is a train crew uniform.

Rokia's faraway look melts when the girl comes up to her, awed. "You look so pretty," she says, reaching out to touch the silk of Rokia's skirt. The stylist hisses between his teeth and she pulls her hand away, but Rokia smiles, adjusts the cap on the kid's head.

"You look pretty nice yourself," she says, and the girl beams. "You all set?" She looks between them, and the boy manages a nod, his eyes almost as wide as the girl's. Rokia smiles for them both, and they climb up into the chariot while Phillips and Rokia find their places in the Victors' stands.

Brutus gives him a nod as they go past, and Phillips returns it and tries not to worry about what he's going to say tomorrow night.

When they get back up to their rooms, Rokia ducks into the girl's room to help her get ready for bed. The boy comes out a couple minutes later and, eyes on his feet, mumbles a question about the shower. Phillips smiles and gets up. He puts a hand on the kid's shoulder as they go back in. "Don't know why they have to make them so fancy," Phillips says, "Just hot and cold ought to be good enough." That gets him a half smile, and when he shows the boy the right buttons to push for something that feels like a shower and not some kind of spa treatment he gets a second of eye contact and a mumbled thanks. He returns the smile, bites down on everything it won't do any good to say, and goes back out.

Rokia comes out a little later with the girl's tear-stains on her shirt. Phillips sighs. Her eyes snap to his. "What?"

He shakes his head. "You're setting yourself up for a lot of hurt," he says, cautious.

She looks away, mumbles something under her breath. He raises an eyebrow, and she shakes her head. "Nothing." Looks down, notices the stains on her shirt, and sighs. "I gotta go get ready. Apparently they have opening night parties."

She comes home just before dawn, disappears again in running shoes without saying a word, comes back an hour later breathing hard. She sits at breakfast with the tributes sipping coffee and toying with a muffin and trying to make the kids laugh with a story about a Capitol woman whose wig was shaped like hovercraft wings and blew off in the wind.

Phillips tells them to pay attention to the survival stations in training, and the boy looks shyly at Rokia and asks if she'll show him some of the traps she used last year. Rokia gives him a brilliant grin that Phillips only knows is false because he knows her, and says sure, that she'll try to scare up some wire and they can try it out this evening.

Phillips takes the kids to training, and when he comes back Rokia's pushed the food away and pulled out her datapad. She looks up when he comes in. "Where do you think I can get some wire?" she asks, looking back at whatever it is she's working on. Phillips very carefully takes three deep breaths before answering. "I'll find you some," he says. "What's your schedule like today?"

She looks up. "I have a commission with the car company all this week. Mostly because they want to take pictures of me working on their cars, but at least that means I actually get to work on their cars." She shrugs. "That's a couple hours a day starting this afternoon, but I gotta look at their schematics." She gestures toward the datapad. "When are we supposed to meet with sponsors and stuff?" she asks, and she's wound up into work-mode, fingers tapping the table since he's pulled her away from whatever she was doing.

"I have a couple meetings scheduled with people I know," Phillips says, a little evasive. They won't amount to much, flattery and pillow talk and reminders that he exists, from people who know he won't waste their time on a hopeless proposition. "But it's all just wait and see, for tributes like ours." Maybe, he thinks, if he can make her see the whole thing for the brutal calculation it is, maybe then she'll realize.

"Do you want me to come along?" she asks, and he barks out his denial too quickly.

"Sorry, no." He tries to recover, but she's watching him. "They're people who know me. It's just business."

She glares, looks back at her datapad. "Fine, whatever," she says. "I guess just tell me what I can do." Her mouth tightens. "There's gotta be some way I can help."

Phillips refuses to even think about it, not for these kids, kids who he already knows should just go for the Cornucopia, better to end it sooner for everyone when he's got not even a thread of hope and when Rokia's already latched on too hard.

He's angry at the futility of it all, the way he hasn't been for years, and he's tired, and that's probably why he says it. "You can't." He can hear the acid in his own voice, and Rokia looks up and flinches. "You can't do anything for them, not this year." She's paying full, fearful attention now, watching his hands, clenched to fists without him noticing, and he opens them and forces himself to back down, back up, look away. He scrubs his hands over his face, tries again. "Rokia, I'm sorry. There's nothing we can do."

"Yeah," she says, flat. "You said." She picks up her datapad. "I gotta get this done," she says, goes into her room and closes the door.

She comes out a couple hours later, glances over at him. "I have to go do this thing," she says, "I'll be back before the kids get out of training." It's impersonal, information for a supervisor, and Phillips bites back the bitterness and nods.

"See you this afternoon, then," he says, and a corner of her mouth curls up as she nods.

He calls down to the Three floor to ask about wire, not sure where they hide something as ordinary as a hardware store in this glittering mess, not wanting to make an official request and glad for the excuse to get out. Beetee gives him an address, and the cabdriver raises his eyebrows when Phillips passes it along. They drive for a while, out of the center into the places that pass for ordinary. He walks into a cramped shop, walls covered in electronic components, and Phillips smiles as he realizes Beetee's go-to Capitol hardware store is the kind of tiny outfit Phillips could almost see in Six. There's a kid at the counter, doing something complicated to a circuit board, and his eyes go wide when Phillips comes up. "Hi," Phillips says, hesitant, "I need some electrical wire."

"You're Rokia's mentor, aren't you?" The boy's grinning. "She's so cool, I wanted her to win last year and I watched her on Capitol Motors and can you get me her autograph?" Phillips blinks in the onslaught. "I already have the whole set of Threes, Beetee got them for me, he comes here sometimes and buys supplies and he says we have the best stock of anyone." The kid beams, pauses for breath.

Phillips takes his chance. "I guess I can," he says, and looks around. "But do you have the wire?"

"What gauge do you want?" the kid asks, poking at a datapad.

"Um, what's standard?" he asks, "I just need it for…" he trails off.

The boy looks at him. "Oh man is it for making traps? I was arguing with Dad because I said she used 10-gauge and he said no it had to be 8-gauge because it was too strong to be 10, I'll give you both and you can ask her and then if I'm right Dad owes me a new soldering iron."

"Okay," Phillips says. "Sure."

The kid disappears into a back room and comes out with two spools. "How much do I owe you?" Phillips asks, opening his wallet.

"No charge, just bring back the one you don't need and get me that autograph and we're even." The kid's bouncing on his toes. "Here, I got the official 71st Games recap book, can you have her sign that?" He hands over a glossy book with Rokia's tribute photo on the front and Phillips stifles an unfunny laugh.

"Sure, kid," he says, gruff. "Thanks."

"See you soon, Phillips!" The kid calls after him as he leaves. In the cab back he laughs until his eyes stream.

Rokia comes home not long after he does, walks in the door and sighs, closes her eyes for a moment and lets her shoulders slump. She looks exhausted, and no wonder. But she opens her eyes, sees him, and visibly pulls herself together. "Hi, Phillips," she says, friendly like everything's fine. "I'm just going to drop off this stuff and change clothes."

She comes out a few minutes later in jeans, looking more like herself than she has since they got here, and she grins when she sees the spools of wire on the table. She picks up the thicker wire, tests it against her hand, and looks up at him. "How'd you know what kind?"

Phillips can't help but laugh. "Kid at the shop remembered you." Rokia's eyebrows go up. "He told me I didn't have to pay for it if I could get him an autograph." Rokia laughs, sits down at the table and runs her fingers through her hair.

"Sure," she says, "Why the hell not." Phillips shakes his head, goes to find the book, and hands it over to Rokia with a little trepidation. She looks at the picture on the cover, shakes her head. "Man," she says, quiet. "The things I didn't know then." She glances up at Phillips, then blinks and shakes her head. "Where should I sign it?"

He finds a marker, hands it to her, shrugs, points to a free part of the cover. "There's good." She's still shaking her head as she does it, flips through the book and hands it back.

"People here are weird," she says, leaning back in her chair.

Phillips laughs, harsh, at that. "Sure are."

The kids come back then, and the boy grins when he sees the spool of wire on the table. "I didn't think you'd remember," he says, ducking his head.

"Sure thing, kid," Rokia says. "Phillips helped."

"Thanks," the boy mumbles, sits down to eat. The girl's quiet, sitting as usual next to Rokia.

"How was training?" Rokia asks, soft, and the kid just shakes her head, biting her lip. Rokia turns back to her food, and she's moving it around her plate again more than she's really eating, but she doesn't push the kid to say anything more. When they're done Rokia grabs the wire and they spend the next hour in the living room tying triplines to the couches and by the end the girl's smiling. When she finally manages to tie together a snare she grins Rokia wraps her in a hug. Phillips has to look away, wishing he'd said no, that he'd said it was against the rules, anything but this.

After the kids are in bed and Rokia's off at the latest appointment Phillips isn't thinking about, the phone rings. "You still up for that drink?" Brutus is as direct as ever, and the wave of relief that crashes over Phillips is almost embarrassing.

"Yes, definitely," he says, and Brutus tells him to meet in the lobby.

They go to their usual place, and Phillips orders his usual, even though--or really because--after the day he's had he'd like a couple of shots of something strong instead.

He leans back in his seat, takes a deep breath, and feels himself start to relax. Brutus is watching him with a half a smile. "Kid giving you trouble?" he asks, and at least he didn't ask if she was okay when they both know full well the answer to that. Phillips huffs a breath of laughter and shakes his head.

"Man, I don't even know," he says, "Kid thinks she knows what she's doing and she's got no idea."

Brutus gives him a sympathetic look, and usually Phillips would hate that but it's far enough from pity to pass. "Kids these days," he drawls, smiling.

"I wanted to keep her home," Phillips says, and he probably shouldn't say anything but it's a relief to tell someone. "They wanted her here but I thought I could keep her out of it some. Except she won't let me."

Brutus shakes his head. "Gotta be tough, mentoring out of the gate like that."

Phillips sighs. "Yeah, I keep telling her she's gotta keep some distance but…" he shrugs.

"We all learn that one the hard way."

Phillips shakes his head. "I don't know what she's gonna do when the kid goes out." Brutus lets a breath whistle past his teeth. Doesn't bother suggesting anything other than what they both know will happen. Phillips goes on. "It'll be at the bloodbath, both of 'em, no point dragging it out, and I don't want her watching."

"Yeah." Brutus says, "Ain't no reason she has to see that."

"I can't stop her though," Phillips says, "If I get her to stay out of the control room she'll just watch it upstairs. Mandatory viewing, not like she'll have to look hard to find it."

Brutus nods, considering. "You could ask Lyme to sit with her."

Phillips raises an eyebrow.

"She's helping out this year, but she'd do it if you asked. She likes your girl."

"Didn't think you all babysat other people's kids."

Brutus snorts. "Don't let it get out."

It's crazy, but it's not actually a bad idea. Phillips remembers his first year, sitting in the mentor's seat watching the clock tick down and feeling the gut punch of adrenaline that burned out hard when both Six kids got killed in the first ten minutes. Rokia doesn't need that, not on top of everything else.

Brutus is watching, sees when he decides, nods.

Phillips takes a deep, relieved breath, and sips his drink. "Thanks."

Brutus smiles. "Not a problem."

When they get back, Lyme's sitting in the lobby with Callista, looking just casual enough that she might not've been waiting around for them. She comes over when they come in, says hello as though she hadn't pestered Phillips into setting this up.

"Phillips wants to know if you'll help him out," Brutus says, deadpan, "Because I know how you like to be helpful."

Lyme glares at Brutus, then turns to Phillips, eyebrows raised. "What do you need, Phillips?"

Phillips swallows. He didn't realize when Brutus told him to ask Lyme that he meant right then. "I don't want Rokia in the control room for the start," he says, "but I need someone to keep her from turning on the damn TV and watching it by herself."

Lyme's jaw clenches but her face stays neutral. "Yeah," she says, easy, "I can do that."

Phillips nods. "Thanks."

"Not a problem."

And now they're drawing attention, and that's not something anyone wants, so Phillips excuses himself and heads upstairs.

The next morning Linsea's there at breakfast, fussing over the kids until they leave, getting down to business after. "We need to talk about your interview today," she says, looking at Rokia. Phillips sighs. Caesar Flickerman and the Games marketing machine need something to keep people talking before the scores from the private sessions tomorrow and "Catching up with last year's Victor" is as good a draw as any.

"I have been talking with the producers," Linsea says, smiling and self-important. "They want to hear about how your family is settling into the Victor lifestyle, they put together pictures from the Tour and from the Reaping, your sisters are so lovely!" She pulls out a thin tablet, Capitol seal embossed in gold, and flips through photos of the house, Rokia's sisters, a couple of her Mom, clips from the Tour stops and Capitol parties and a few of her piloting a hovercraft, under the hood of a racecar, carefully curated, Phillips can tell, so that she looks young and playful and happy.

She looks none of those things now, even the usual bland smile she wears around Linsea has faded to a scowl. "I don't want to talk about my family," she says, sharp. "That's private."

"Oh, but sweetheart," Linsea says, "Everyone is just dying to hear about those adorable little girls, and your Mom's health concerns, it's just so tragic, you know, you having to take on so much responsibility, even though I know Phillips likes to help out."

"Linsea," Phillips says, sharp. "Give us a minute, will you?"

Linsea looks between them and she must finally notice the thunderstorm she's stirred up because she nods. "I'll just…I'll just be out on the balcony getting some fresh air."

Rokia turns her glare on Phillips. "What the hell, Phillips?"

He sighs. "I'm sorry, but we have to give them something."

"Like hell I'm telling them about my family, Phillips, come on!"

Of course they hand to bring her girls into it. Because she wasn't pissed enough already. "Look, not everything, but you can come up with some stories for them, right?"

She glares at him. "You know they watch," she says, tense and furious. "My Aunt won't let them watch the actual Games, but she loves all this stuff, you know she'll be crowing to everyone about it."

Phillips shrugs. "So mention her," he says, and maybe it's mean, but if the woman wants the Capitol to notice her, they may as well help out. "Say they still haven't been able to cure your Mom but your aunt is so helpful…" he waves a hand and Rokia laughs. It's harsh and unamused, but he'll take it for now.

A little later he calls Linsea back in for the rest of it, and by the time they're done talking Rokia looks wound up tight enough to snap. Linsea wants her to go right to prep but Phillips steps in. "You need a minute?" he asks. Rokia looks at him, grateful for once.

"I, uh, didn't get my run in this morning," she says, and Phillips isn't sure if it's true, but Linsea nods agreement.

"Oh, yes, well, I suppose we can give you an hour, it's so good you stay diligent, the stylists all say a lot of Victors let themselves go during the Games, there are so many temptations!" Phillips grinds his teeth but Rokia's already up and moving so he tries to smile.

When she comes back she's no longer vibrating like a high-tension line so Phillips calls it a win.

The actual interview goes well, she smiles and tells snippets of stories that offer everything and reveal nothing. When Caesar calls Phillips onto the stage and asks what it's like to have another Victor in Six after all this time, he does more or less the same, puts an arm around Rokia's shoulders for effect, smiles and smiles.

And then Caesar asks them about their kids this year. Rokia tenses under his arm and he responds. "Well, Caesar, we're just getting to know them ourselves, but they're both looking to follow in Rokia's footsteps."

Caesar, professional that he is, just gives them a blinding smile and says "And wouldn't that be so exciting for all of you!"

Rokia smiles, and the cameras cut out, and Caesar shakes their hands and tells them he's looking forward to meeting their tributes, and Phillips almost believes it isn't a lie.

\--

Phillips isn't wrong, is the worst part. As much as she wants to be able to help, she knows, deep down, it won't amount to anything. They're both small, quiet kids, underfed and overworked but Ryan works on an assembly line and Safiatou helps out in her Mom's garden and watches the neighbor kids, and none of it adds up to anything useful. They know it too, and as the days of training go on they get quieter, both of them, until the night before their private sessions. Phillips smiles at Ryan and tells him to show them what he learned from Rokia, make them think he can do what she did. Safiatou is sitting next to Rokia and Rokia feels her go tense when Phillips looks at her. "You too," he says, and he's been distant and stoic the whole time but his voice is soft now. "You're a clever kid, you just show them what you've learned." Safiatou smiles a little and nods, and sits up straight. "Good girl," Phillips says, reaching over to put a hand on her knee.

They head for bed, and as soon as the doors close Rokia spins to face Phillips. "What was that?" she asks, suddenly angry. "I thought you said--" Phillips holds up a hand and motions her out to the balcony.

"I thought you said they had no shot, that we weren't supposed to care?"

Phillips gives her a long, level look. "I didn't say you shouldn't care," he says, "I said you have to keep some distance."

"But why strategy talk all of a sudden if you think they're just going to die anyway?"

"They're not dead yet," Phillips says, and it comes out quick like it's automatic. "Matters to them." Rokia's eyes narrow. Phillips' voice stays even, "It's all we can do, Rokia."

She takes a deep breath and laughs, wonders again how in the hell she got here, leans over the railing and watches the photographers crowding around the doors looking for a shot of one of them leaving, thinks of the flashbulbs in her face last night. She has a night off, wonder of wonders, but someone will be going out who's worth photographing.

"What a ridiculous fucking Game," she says, half to herself, and Phillips gives her a sharp look and a shake of his head.

Rokia turns and leans against the railing, hands gripping tight. She's exhausted, dizzy, cold even though the night is warm, but suddenly everything is funny. Six floors above her and five below full of crazy victors trying to pull out more kids to join the Game. A whole compound, Gamesmakers and reporters and Caesar Flickerman and whatever unlucky people have to build the arenas, for what? It's ludicrous, ridiculous, kids like Phillips' friend the wire salesman asking for autographs from people just because they killed a bunch of teenagers.

Phillips is watching her, one eyebrow raised, and she shifts over, knocks their shoulders together. "Fucking ridiculous," she says again, leaning on him.

He shakes his head. "Come on," he says, and he puts a hand on her back when he straightens to move toward the door, steadying her but not trapping her, and Rokia's too tired to even care that he's babying her still, too tired to protest when he takes her to her room. She does step away then, it's her room and her space and she doesn't want anyone in it. He stays in the doorway. "Goodnight Rokia," he says, giving her a small smile. "Sleep, okay?"

She nods. "Yeah, Phillips," she says, "Goodnight."

She lies down on the bed, looks up at the ceiling. Even as exhausted as she is the expanse of the room, the soft bed, it's all too strange. She sighs, grabs a pillow and a blanket, curls up in the protected corner between it and the wall, and there she's asleep in minutes.

It's still dark when she wakes up, disoriented for a second until her mind slips into place. She pulls the blankets close around her shoulders and searches for something to drag her back toward sleep but it's too late, she's awake now and a million problems clamor for attention and her heartbeat kicks up until she reaches for the datapad she dropped on the bed last night, pulls up the schematics for the new line of racing engines that she'll work on today. The lights come on low as she shifts to sit up against the wall, wrapped in blankets, forcing her scattered thoughts to focus.

She hears Phillips's door open sometime later and climbs to her feet, showers, pulls on the softest clothes she can dig out of the closets. Phillips is already sitting at the table when she goes out, but the kids aren't up yet. She sets the datapad next to her plate as she pours coffee, wraps her hands around it and breathes in the steam for a minute before taking a sip. Phillips slides a bowl of oatmeal across the table. "Eat," he says, when she looks up. Rokia sets down her mug and picks up a spoon, stirring in the milk Phillips has poured over the top. He's watching her, almost challenging, and she eats, slowly, letting it settle into her stomach.

The kids come out later, take quiet places at the table and mumble good mornings. Rokia saves a smile for each of them, even if Ryan flushes and looks away, and Phillips asks them how they slept, reminds them again about their private sessions, holds their eyes serious and concerned and Rokia watches him watching them and wonders again how much he's faking.

After he walks them out he turns his attention back to her and Rokia meets his eyes, challenging. "You can't keep me from doing anything the entire time," she says, and his eyes flick to one side before he meets her gaze. "I have the day off tomorrow for interview prep, opening day is off and then everything else is provisional" she tries not to grind her teeth on the word, the way Linsea acts like it would be an inconvenience for the kids to live longer than she had planned.

Phillips looks wary, like she's not going to like what he has to say, so she leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. "What?"

"You can help with interview prep if you want to," he says, "but you are not watching the opening."

This again.

"Phillips," she says, trying for calm, logical, "we owe them the best chance they can possibly have and that means both of us working to get them out."

Phillips' jaw sets and he looks over her shoulder out the window before he answers her. "Rokia, they're not going to make it out."

"You keep saying that!" So much for calm and logical. Rokia stands up and resents the fact that even so she's looking up at him. "How do you know?"

"Because I do," he says, and as she opens her mouth to reply he continues. "Because I've been doing this 23 years and I know hopeless causes when I see them." He's not yelling. She almost wishes he would.

"But how can you be sure?" It comes out small and uncertain instead of the challenge she wants it to be, but he's staring her in the eye and his shoulders are tight, so she backs away and pulls her arms around herself but she has to ask. She has to.

He backs off. Of course he does, steps back, literally, runs a hand over his face. "Look," he says, flat. "I didn't want to show you this but…" he shrugs, picks up a folder, pushes the dishes aside to make room.

Rokia sits next to him, looks at the pages marked "Games personnel only" and listens while he explains what they've been saying about her win and Annie Cresta's before her and Eibhlin's before that and how they need a return to tradition and just what that means. It twists in her stomach, the Games as--just that really, nothing more than strategy, odds and angles and what the viewers and sponsors want to see, and it makes her head spin but in the end she slumps down in her chair because she sees it, sketched out in black and white and not just Phillips and his gut feelings and protective instinct. He has data.

He finishes the explanation, just as dry as Beetee explaining circuit diagrams, and he must see it on her face, the fight drained out leaving what? It's hopeless, then, so what the hell are they even doing here?

"They're going to die," she says, and her voice doesn't even sound like hers.

"Yes." Phillips says, "But listen to me Rokia," and there's steel in his voice but it's cold strength not hot fury, and her eyes slide towards him, "They are not dead yet."

Rokia watches his face, wonders how many times he's told himself that, wonders how many times she'll have to tell herself, not just this year, not just these two kids she's ferrying off to the Arena. It's too big, too much, and she shakes her head, presses her nails into her palms under the table, focuses on each sheet of paper in front of her until she can trust herself to nod, look over at Phillips and grit out the words. "You're right." He gives her a rueful half smile, and she looks away again.

"Okay," she nods again, flips through the papers. "I have a couple hours before I go to prep, what do we need to tell them for the interviews?"

\--

Phillips looks at the kids standing in the middle of the room, nervous and overwhelmed after a morning with Linsea teaching them how to comport themselves in a public venue. He'd sent them there first, hoping he could get Rokia to sleep for a few hours, but she'd just glared at him and pulled out her notebook and her datapad and mumbled something about a next job. It's starting to become a problem, she's not eating enough or sleeping enough, spending too much time wearing herself out on the treadmills in the gym or poring over her work. Apart from her jobs and the gym he doesn't think she's left the floor, and it's not like he wants her drinking all day with Haymitch but it'd probably do her good to see someone who isn't him and isn't Capitol.

But as she points out every time he tries to bring it up, they have a job to do.

She mostly watches as he asks the kids what they like about the Capitol, some innocuous-sounding questions about back home, whatever he thinks Caesar might throw at them tomorrow. Then he glances at Rokia and sighs. He wishes he could send her out but he knows exactly how that'll go.

"And what did you think when Rokia won last year?" Her eyes flick towards him but she hides her surprise and her smile doesn't waver. The little girl bites her lip and looks down, embarrassed, and the boy flushes, going red to his ears.

"Ryan?" The kid glances at Rokia, looks back at Phillips.

"I, uh," he stammers, and Phillips does not roll his eyes because he's seen enough tongue-tied 15-year-olds that he can guess what's going to happen next. "I thought she was really great and really smart and um, I was just really happy she won and I wanted to meet her sometime." It comes out all in a rush while he's looking at his feet. Phillips takes a breath but he knows Caesar will eat this up so he continues.

"And now that you did get to meet her what do you think?" Rokia raises one eyebrow, just a little, and Phillips returns it. She sits stock-still and a year ago, six months ago, he'd be able to see her discomfort but now her posture betrays nothing. Ryan, on the other hand, is shifting in his chair and looking around for escape routes.

"Um, I…she's…she's really nice and she's great and um, she taught me how to make traps like she did and it was really cool."

Phillips sighs. The crowd will love it, is the thing, if they can just understand what he's saying. "That's good," he says, no longer playing Caesar. "They'll like that, you just have to talk more clearly." The kid's still staring at his feet, and he glances up at Phillips for a second, careful not to look anywhere near Rokia, and then he nods.

Phillips looks over at Rokia and she sees what he's asking before he has to say anything. "I'm glad I got to meet you, Ryan," she says, light and friendly, "just too bad it had to be here."

Ryan looks up at her then, just for a second. She smiles at him. "It's okay, tell Caesar about it, they'll like it." He nods.

The girl is easier: she liked Rokia because she's the first Victor District 6 has had since she was born, she likes the way Rokia helps her out here, just like her big sister at home. She's overawed, amazed at the lights and sounds and smells in the Capitol, when even the city in Six was new for her, and there's no way she'll be anything but cute and forgettable so he leaves it at that.

Finally Phillips tells them they're ready, and they disappear into their rooms while Rokia heads for prep.

He sleeps restlessly, wakes up when she comes in because she bumps into something and swears under her breath. When he goes into the hall she's leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, dressed for a Capitol party but with her clothes rumpled and her makeup smeared.

"Rokia," he says, soft, "let's get you to bed."

She stands up straight, bracing herself against the wall with one hand. Stares at him for a second while she blinks herself alert. "Yeah," she says, voice rough, "right, okay."

He hands her her pajamas, waits while she showers, and when she comes out she looks a little better. She won't meet his eyes, keeps her distance, but she crawls into bed and pulls the blankets up to her ears and he watches her until her breathing evens out and her shoulders relax into sleep.

It's only four hours later when Linsea shows up and asks for her, and Phillips wants to tell the woman to go to hell but the kids are watching so he just smiles and nods and goes to Rokia's room. He stands in the doorway and says her name, softly. She jolts upright, turning towards the door with wild, scared eyes for a long moment until she sees him and drops her head into her hands, shuddering breaths making her shoulders heave. When she looks back up at him it's with the pleasant smile she usually saves for Linsea and he almost flinches. "What do you need, Phillips?" she asks.

"Linsea's asking for you," he says, "Sorry for waking you up."

She's climbing out of bed already. "It's fine, Phillips, I should be up anyway."

She comes out a few minutes later, with smiles for the kids and for Linsea and pours herself a cup of coffee while the kids finish their breakfast and head out for prep.

Once they're gone Linsea shakes her head. "Well, I guess they can't all be like you, dear," she says, looking at Rokia. Phillips waits for a flash of anger but it doesn't come, Rokia smiles instead, sits at the table to pick apart a piece of toast while Linsea gives her a schedule of appearances for the day. Phillips will go along for most of them, typical mentor stuff, talking up the tributes and questions about strategies and what they think the Arena will look like. What it's like to mentor for the first time. At least none of it is personal this time, not really.

But it's still interview after interview and Rokia is pleasant and charming and smiles for the cameras and then goes blank-faced and silent between them. When they get back to the Six floor she disappears for a long hot shower before they go to prep. She's going to a party afterwards, and Phillips wants more than ever to wrap her up and put her to bed instead but it's impossible. Impossible and he should know better but his girl is slipping away from him and it's too much to ask not to want to pull her back.

They meet the kids backstage and Rokia melts, as always, under their awed stares, fixes invisible flaws in their outfits, hugs the little girl and smiles at the boy and tells them they'll do great and she means it, she's still giving them her real smiles and her soft, Six-flat vowels, not the clipped, careful accent she kept through all the interviews, the one Linsea's told these kids to use, he's sure.

The interviews drag as they always do, and Phillips can't bring himself to pay attention, not when it isn't going to matter. Rokia's watching with a distant look in her eyes that makes him wonder if she's thinking about the interviews from last year, makes him remember trying to coax something real out of the stubborn, silent kid she'd been.

The stylist's dressed the girl to look like Rokia did, and when she says Rokia's like her big sister the crowd sighs and Caesar beams while the cameras seach out Rokia's pained smile, which clears into a wide grin when she notices. By the time Ryan stumbles through talking about his teenaged crush she's ready with a knowing, indulgent smile that makes people laugh. She meets Ryan's eye though, nods encouragingly, and he gets through without major embarrassment.

After it's all over they meet the kids, Rokia hugging the girl while Phillips just rests a hand on the boy's shoulder and says "Well done." When they get upstairs Phillips has them sit in the common room and looks from one to the other, serious.

"Tomorrow," he says, and they both freeze. "When the buzzer goes off you get to the Cornucopia, quick as you can, and you get one of the backpacks." Rokia's standing behind the kids and he looks up at her sharp intake of breath. She's glaring at him, furious, and he spares a second to stare right back, shake his head. She doesn't move.

It's Ryan who asks the obvious question. "But isn't that dangerous? Rokia ran away last year."

Phillips nods, gravely. "But the Arena will be different this year. Last year's Arena had lots of opportunities to make weapons, find supplies, get water. They never do that two years in a row." The boy nods, and there, the fear is coming through, the panic that usually hits once there's no more little things to focus on, only tomorrow and the Arena. The girl's crying silently and Rokia gives Phillips another fierce glare and goes to sit next to her, holding her close. Phillips lets his voice go soft and reassuring. "You're little, Safiatou," he says, "and you're quick. They probably won't even notice you." It's true, he thinks. The first wild minutes--whoever kills her probably won't give her a second glance. "And you're quick, too," he says, looking at the boy who's still trying to drag up enough anger to drown the panic. "Don't stay and try to fight, just grab the supplies and get out."

They agree, eventually, subdued and terrified but it's better if they think there's a plan, that once they get those first supplies he'll be able to help them out. Rokia gives the girl a long hug when he sends them to bed, then as soon as the doors close she spins to face him, furious. He motions her out to the balcony and sets his jaw for the onslaught he knows is coming.

"They're going to get killed!" she spits. "You told them--it's suicide and you fucking know it!"

"It's better this way," he says, and he should have known better than to think she'd actually accepted how hopeless it really is. "Better to end it quick than to drag it out until, what, they die of dehydration on day four? They starve in the second week? The Careers find them and decide to have some fun? Because those are the options, Rokia." He shouldn't snap at her, he knows he shouldn't, and he feels bad when she flinches back, but she is too smart not to understand.

She's silent a long time, staring out over the city, and he leaves her be, watches as the lights come on around the city center, as the music starts up at the party she'll be at later, and he remembers telling her last year to run, to get away as fast as she could, to find water first of all, remembers her dark eyes fixed, intent on his. When she looks up at him now there are tears in her eyes and she swipes at them impatiently. "You're right," she says dully, "I just…" she hunches in on herself. "I hate this," she whispers, and walks inside before he can react.

She disappears into her room, comes out a few minutes later wobbling slightly on high heels. "Licina said to stop by Remake for touchups," she says, as though it was just an ordinary night, whatever that could be. "I'll see you in the morning."

He barely has time to call out a goodbye before she's gone.

\--

Rokia thought she was used to Capitol parties, thought she was over being shocked, but every time they manage to surprise her. The first time a drunk, sentimental woman tells her how adorable her tributes looked tonight she has to pinch herself hard to keep from saying something stupid. The tenth time she just smiles and sips at her drink. Phillips has warned her and Linsea has warned her to be careful not to drink too much, but the man she's with keeps bringing her brightly colored sweet-smelling things that she has to try to "forget" when he looks away. He's young and rich and stupid and as the night goes on and he keeps drinking he drapes his arms over her, affectionante, stealing kisses like he thinks it's romantic.

She tries to escape into something else but all her mind throws at her are images of the tributes at the bloodbath, years of seeing it on TV and last year in front of her and no reason to think tomorrow will be anything but more of the same. Phillips' calm voice for the kids and the venom in it when he talked to her and it's sick to be standing here with tittering idiots talking about odds and longshots and favorites as though it wasn't all blood and gore and pain and death.

When her phone finally chimes that the driver's arrived, she's more than usually grateful. She lets herself be pulled close for a last kiss, then slips back into her clothes and out the door. There are still people on the streets even though the sun will be up before long, laughing and stumbling home through streets so different from the ones she grew up with they might as well be a different world. The screen in the Training Center lounge is playing clips from the interviews and Games highlights and interviews with people on the street, radiating excited anticipation, and Rokia thinks about the kids in their beds waiting and wants to scream.

Phillips is awake when she gets in, sitting in the common room and looking out the window towards the City Center. She nods at him and slips into her room, out of her clothes and into the shower, letting the hot water pound on the sore muscles in her back and burn away the worst of the headache behind her eyes.

They'll be calling the kids soon, getting them ready and flying them out to the Arena and for all that she's wound up and restless and wants to run until she can't breathe she should be there for them now, it's the last chance they'll get to see a friendly face.

She's not thinking about that.

Phillips hasn't moved when she gets out, he looks over at her and for a second he looks tired and hurt and sad, and then he shifts, smiles ruefully, and says good morning.

She paces the room, if she sits down she'll get tired and there's not time to sleep, she needs to say goodbye to the kids and keep her cool and then before long they'll head down to the control room for the start, and she has to be strong in front of all the other Victors, the ones she's seen at parties and the ones she's never met, and she has to be ready for when the countdown ends and the kids--well. Like Phillips said, at least this way it will be quick.

Then she'll let herself be tired. Not now.

She stops pacing when the door opens and Linsea steps in with the stylists, all of them looking grumpy and hungover. Linsea settles her shoulders and smiles, bright and false, and Rokia sighs. Phillips goes to wake Ryan and she stops in front of Safiatou's door, taking deep breaths until she's sure she'll stay calm.

"Babygirl, it's time," she says, and Safiatou blinks her eyes open so fast Rokia's sure she wasn't asleep. Dark eyes, like Allie's, wide and scared and looking to her, and Rokia goes and hugs her one last time, stroking her hair and holding her close and not saying anything because what is there to say? Linsea calls out to her, finally, and she stands and pulls the girl to her feet. "You can do this," she says, letting her voice go hard. "You're a good girl, and strong, and you're going to make your Mama proud, okay?"

Safiatou nods, takes deep breaths, and walks out the door with her head high.

Rokia stays in her room for a minute, hands shaking and stomach clenching, and then presses her fists into her eyes and stands up.

"No." Phillips isn't even arguing.

"But Phillips, I'm her mentor, I have to be there."

"And what in the twelve districts are you going to do there?"

She doesn't have an answer to that. "I owe it to them."

"No, you don't."

"Phillips!" She's aware, dimly, that she's acting childish, but why won't he listen?

"Rokia, listen to me," he says, and she crosses her arms and meets his eyes. "You know what's going to happen just as well as I do," he says, "And you're upset enough already, you don't need wo watch it happen."

"I'm fine" she spits, shoving down the tears and the exhaustion and the creeping panic and focusing on the anger.

He just looks at her, and she meets his eyes until he finally turns away.

"Rokia, please," he says finally, all the anger drained out of his voice. "For me, then, will you please stay here?"

She opens her mouth to tell him no, to ask what the hell he thinks he's doing, asking her that, like she owes him--but she does. She owes him more than she'll ever be able to pay back, damn him, and he's got a right to call in a favor if anyone does.

Besides, she can always watch it on TV from up here.

"Fine," she says, and drops into a chair, pours another cup of the fancy Capitol coffee, and they sit in silence for a while until the door chime sounds. Phillips doesn't look surprised, just gets up to open the door.

And it's Lyme, from District Two, and what the hell is she doing here?

"Rokia, this is Lyme," Phillips says, and Rokia should probably not be snapping at a woman who's twice her size and a Career Victor, but it's been a long week.

"I know, we met on the Tour. What's she doing here?"

Lyme's smiling a little bit, and Rokia isn't sure if she's being nice or laughing at her but she doesn't really care that much right now.

"She's going to sit with you while I'm downstairs."

Rokia stands up and walks over toward the windows because it's that or throw her hot coffee at them, and she's not crazy enough to do that. "I don't need a fucking babysitter, Phillips," she says, spinning to face them. And now Lyme is definitely smiling, looking between her and Phillips.

Phillips looks like he's about to lift off the ground out of sheer frustration, and it's Lyme who responds. "Sure, kid," she says, "because you're not going to turn on the TV as soon as he's out of the room."

Rokia opens her mouth, closes it, and Lyme nods. "Thought so." Then she turns to Phillips. "I got this," she says, and Phillips doesn't quite manage to hide his look of relief.

"See you later, Rokia," he says, turning towards the door.

She's almost frustrated enough to let him leave without a response but she's seventeen, not seven, so she grits out "See you," and a lopsided half-smile.

When he's out the door she glares at Lyme. "Why do you people all insist on treating me like I'm fragile?"

Lyme shakes her head, still with that smile like Rokia's glare doesn't even matter. "Just treating you like I would any of my kids," she says, crossing the room in three long strides to grab the remote and take a seat on the couch.

Rokia stays standing, raises one eyebrow. "Oh really?"

"Sure," Lyme says, relaxed. "Nobody needs to see that their first year out."

"I bet you watched," Rokia says, and she's still angry and confused and everything else, but some of the fight's started to drain out of her limbs.

"Nope," Lyme says. "Kid, nobody in Two watches their first year."

"Really?" She's actually curious now. "Not even Enobaria?"

Lyme actually laughs at that. "Especially not Enobaria."

"Huh."

"Yeah, no special treatment here."

"I'm supposed to be their mentor, though," Rokia grumbles. "It's not right, Phillips doing it by himself."

Lyme sighs. "Yeah," she says, "but he's been doing it on his own a long time, one more year won't kill him."

"But--"

"Look, kid, there isn't anything you're going to say to convince me," Lyme says, "You're welcome to try, or we can do something more interesting."

"Like what?" Rokia's curious, despite herself.

Lyme grins. "Well, you kinda look like you want to hit something."

Rokia laughs. "I know better than to try that."

Lyme gets to her feet. "Come on," she says, "It'll be fun."

\--

Phillips gets into the elevator, leans against the wall, and closes his eyes. It's more than just a lack of sleep making his limbs feel like they're made of lead. He's used to the feeling by now, going back up to a newly silent floor and packing up anything the kids left in their rooms before the Avoxes clean them out. Two more kids to add to the tally, and it never gets easier but he knows how to handle it by now.

It's the one he managed to pull out that's making it harder this time. He won't even have to tell her, she'll know, she'll read it on his face, and he's not sure if he'll get fury or blank stares or something new, not sure which he'd prefer, but it's not going to be easy, because it never is.

He opens the door to the Six floor and walks in to silence. As he steps further in he sees Lyme, sitting with a pile of papers in her lap, looking back at him with a wry smile. He opens his mouth to say something and she shakes her head, shifts her work and gets to her feet to meet him. That's when he sees the pile of blankets on the couch, only the top of Rokia's head emerging.

Lyme follows him into his room and he turns to her, eyebrows raised. "How in the twelve districts did you actually convince her to sleep?" He gives her a sharp look. "If you fed my Victor sleeping pills I swear, I will--"

"Come on, Phillips," Lyme says, exasperated, "I wouldn't do that to your kid without talking to you first. Not that I don't think it'd be a good idea--"

"No." Phillips shuts that down right away. There will be no more drug-addict Victors in Six, not on his watch. "So how'd you get her to sleep? I've been trying since we got here and she just tells me to go to hell."

Lyme's smiling a little. "I confiscated her datapad."

Phillips just stares at her, and Lyme's grin gets wide enough that he must look ridiculous, but he can't imagine the shitstorm he'd unleash if he tried that. "She let you?"

"Oh, no," Lyme says. "She's got a pretty good set-you-on-fire glare, doesn't she?" Phillips smiles grudgingly at that. Lyme doesn't seem phased by any of it though, just mildly amused. "I wore her out pretty good, too," she adds, almost as an aside.

Oh, shit.

"She was worn out already, what did you do?"

Lyme shakes her head. "Phillips, come on, I'm not gonna hurt your girl. Just taught her some training forms."

Phillips runs a hand down his face. Sometime in the last year his life stopped making any damn sense and apparently he should just get used to it because it doesn't look like it's going to change anytime soon.

But his brilliant, frustrating, obstinate girl is asleep on the couch in the other room, so apparently he can relax a bit for now.

Lyme sees it, the moment he backs down, and nods. "Your two are out?" she aks, and Phillips swallows, nods.

"Yeah. It's gonna be a hell of a year," he says, "desert arena, nothing but maces for weapons." Something flashes on Lyme's face before she locks it down. "Your two are fine," he adds, as if there were any question, but Lyme's no longer paying much attention.

She nods, runs a hand through her hair. "I gave your kid my phone number," she says, "Just in case." Phillips nods, as though this was normal. He doesn't have Lyme's personal number. "Tell her I'll see her around."

"Yeah," Phillips says, absently, then looks back at Lyme. "Thank you."

"No problem, Phillips," Lyme says, and heads out.


	2. They want what you've got

The worst thing about the Games from this side is watching the Capitol watch the spectacle. After they film her solemn, disappointed reaction to the deaths of her first tributes--just enough sadness without being maudlin, they whisk her into prep and out into the wild streets.

The tears threaten at first, before the noise and the lights and the strange touches overwhelm her and she locks away everything that makes her her and lets them wash the rest of it away. "So tragic," a woman says, wide-eyed, glass in hand. "I had to close my eyes!" The woman's date puts an arm around her shoulders and rolls his eyes, takes her glass away with the other hand as they move away.

Rokia's here for Victor Affairs, for the time being, official guest at the very exclusive official opening night celebration, so there's no one taking her arm or pulling her into the secluded corners for a taste of what's to come. She drifts towards one of the tables and tries to identify some kind of recognizable food that won't make her stomach turn, when she notices someone looking over her shoulder.

And maybe not all of her is locked away, because she spins faster than she probably should and looks up into Finnick Odair's face, up close and personal for the first time since the Tour. His smile is bright enough to be blinding, but he tensed, just for a second, when her hands came up. She smiles, and if it's hardly going to match his, well, he's had more practice.

"Here," he says, reaching past her and coming up with something a color of pink that cannot possibly be natural. He hands one to her, pops another into his mouth. She tries it, dubious, swallows fast when it turns out to be nothing but spun sugar. Something must show on her face because he laughs, tries again.

"Here, less sweet," and this time it's nutty and chewy and she still can't identify it but it's not half bad. He grins, this time for real, when he sees she likes it. "Lovely party," he says, and the sarcasm is buried under so many layers of sugar she wonders if she's imagining it, but she's pretty sure she's not.

"And I thought yesterday's was good." Her own sarcasm is much closer to the surface, but while there are plenty of eyes on them nobody's paying particularly close attention, so whatever. Finnick's smile doesn't waver.

"Well, this one's much more exclusive," he says, "only the Capitol's finest." He spends a few minutes pointing out Ministers and Arena designers and various Capitol celebrities as though Rokia will actually remember their names.

"Turning out to be quite the Games," he says, once he's exhausted the topic of the guest list. Rokia glances away and takes a breath.

"I haven't watched," she says, and Finnick's eyes widen just a fraction before he continues.

"Well, you're missing out. A desert and a cornucopia of maces," he says, laconic, while Rokia watches the way his hair curls behind his ears so she doesn't have to either meet his eyes or think about Safiatou with her head smashed in and her blood soaking the sand. "And the One girl and the Two girl are putting on quite the show."

There's something in his voice that makes her finally look him in the eye. "Blood and sex," he says, sharper, his smile faded. "That's going to be the theme, this Games." Rokia's head spins, she doesn't know what that means but she doesn't much like the sound of it. He turns the smile back on like he's flipping a switch, though, and puts an arm around her shoulder, spinning her and pulling her towards him in one quick motion. It happens too fast for her to flinch, and then she's looking at an unfamiliar face, pale and heavyset and framed by lank blond hair, ugly for the Capitol.

"Plutarch Heavensbee," Finnick says, "Have you met Rokia?"

Heavensbee holds out a hand and she shakes it.

"Quite the Arena you've designed, Plutarch," Finnick goes on, "Back to basics this year, huh?"

"Not entirely," Plutarch looks vaguely affronted, "I think the limited weaponry and the hostile environment will provide an interesting dynamic." He glances at Rokia. "Welcome back to the Capitol, Miss Diarra," he says, "I'm sure Finnick can show you the ropes." Finnick chuckles, low in his throat, and Plutarch smirks, shakes his head and moves on.

Finnick glances over Rokia's head and steps away from her. "I think I'm about to be told off for monopolizing your time," he says, with a smile that belies the almost-apology, "See you around." He gives her a last dazzling smile and steps past her to intercept a woman in a blood-red dress with nails to match, and Rokia just catches the tone of an almost-argument before she lets herself be swept into the crowd.

The next morning Linsea shows up at breakfast with schedule updates for Rokia, a few interview requests for Phillips, and a note from Wiress. Rokia rips that open before Linsea's even finished talking and grins when she sees what's inside.

"Yes," Linsea says, "Wiress requested you specifically, says she wants your help with some project she's been assigned while she's here, and we'll have to juggle it with the publicity schedule but apparently this is a priority."

It's all Rokia can do to sit through breakfast and not race down to the Three floor right away, it's like someone flipped a switch and her brain's started working again, finally breaking out of the fog she's been trapped in. But she sits, finishes her oatmeal, drinks another cup of coffee, and half-listens to Linsea's scheduling nightmares and party planning and who knows what.

But finally they're finished, and Rokia collects her notebook and her datapad and heads down to the Three floor.

Beetee lets her in with a tight smile, and the go over to the table, where Wiress is sting with the other two Three Victors. The oldest smiles and reaches across the table to take her hand. "I don't know if you remember me from the Tour," she says, "I'm Lumina." Rokia nods. A lot of the Tour is a blur, fractured memories that float up without rhyme or reason, but Three was good.

The younger girl--older than Rokia, but she looks young, styled like she's heading out--looks up from her hands, wide-eyed and serious. "Eibhlin," she says, looking back down.

Rokia smiles back and before she can wonder where Eibhlin is off to, dressed like that, the Three escort calls for her and she slips out. Rokia doesn't ask. It seems safer that way.

They have a table set up in the common room, one side half covered in stacks of paper, and that's where Wiress heads. Rokia follows, leaving Beetee and Lumina talking quietly at the breakfast table. Wiress picks up one large binder and passes it over.

"Wow, actual paper?" It comes out a little forced through the tension in the room, but Wiress shoots her a ghost of a smile anyway.

"Heavy lift cargo craft need a steering and guidance overhaul. All hydraulic steering, thought you might appreciate it." It's clipped and tight and direct, none of the jokes Rokia's used to, and the Three tributes went out in the bloodbath yesterday too, so maybe that's why the air feels so heavy everywhere.

Rokia sits down and opens the book, while Wiress settles in next to her. She pulls out her notebook before long, re-drawing diagrams and turning things over in her head and trying to remember the last time they had something this big in the shop.

"They're sturdy, these ones," she says after a while, and Wiress's head snaps up to look at her, sharp. "We almost never see them, and they're easy to fix." Wiress nods, absently, looking at the datapad in her hands.

"Hmmmm." She looks up and blinks a couple times. "Yes, that's…interesting." She looks back at her datapad, eyebrows furrowing. "The pilots say the steering is balky."

Rokia shrugs. "Maybe they're just not used to it, it'd feel different than the little ones that're all fly by wire." She wonders for a minute whether she'll get to fly again, remembering the feel of the hovercraft shifting under her hands.

Wiress nods. "Probably…"

They lapse into silence again, until Beetee comes over and stands next to Wiress' chair. "Lunchtime," he announces, and Wiress looks up and lets out a long breath. Rokia runs a hand through her hair and gets up, follows them to the dining room, then wonders if maybe she should go upstairs, get out of their way. But there's a place set for her and Beetee smiles and says he called up to tell Phillips so she sits. The food is good, light and simple, and Lumina comes and sits with them and sips her soup and asks Rokia what they're working on. They move easily around each other, comfortable and quiet and like no place Rokia's ever been. If Wiress isn't talking much nobody presses, and they don't act like they're avoiding the awkward questions, just that it's not actually important what she did last night when there's more interesting things to talk about.

Phillips calls down a little later to say that Linsea is looking for her, and Rokia sighs and collects her things. "Thanks, Wiress," she says, and Wiress looks up with a flash that's almost her usual grin.

"See you tomorrow?" she asks, and Rokia nods.

"Count on it."

It's like stepping back into a storm, walking out of the elevator on the Six floor, Phillips standing in the common room radiating worry, Linsea smiling and fluttering, the prep team descends on her and whisks her off and she falls back into it all like she'd never left. It's interviews again this afternoon. Phillips comes along, sits in the car next to her and she wishes she knew what to say to make him stop looking at her like that, to make things okay, but she doesn't and he's looking out for her and she owes him her very life so she can't very well tell him to stop even if she knew what it was he was doing that makes her want to run away.

The interviewer today is a woman with feathers twisted into her hair, spreading behind her like a peacock's tail, and Rokia watches them bob and sway as the woman nods or shakes her head. "So what was it like?" she asks, wide-eyed. "It must have been so exciting, getting to mentor for the first time."

They practiced this, they knew it was coming, but it still sends a spike of fury through Rokia's skull, setting off the headache that always seems to settle behind her eyes. "It's a little overwhelming," she says, rueful. "There's so much to learn." The woman nods, sympathetic.

"Well, better luck next year, right?" The woman's grin is almost as bright as Caesar's. "You've been attending quite a few of the Games events," she goes on, and photos flash up on the screen behind them. Rokia swallows hard, breathes, and tries to let it all wash past without touching her. "It must be amazing getting to mingle with so many of Panem's brightest stars!" There's a picture of her last night, Finnick's arm around her shoulders, talking to Plutarch Heavensbee.

Rokia smiles. "It's incredible really," she gets out. "I never would have imagined." It's a nothing phrase, but the woman laughs anyway.

"Of course, how could you!" She puts a hand on Rokia's knee. "Aren't you just the sweetest," she says, and finishes, finally, reminding everyone about the schedule of public viewings, the sponsoring numbers, where to find tribute odds. When the camera shuts off, she stands, shakes Rokia's hand and says, "It's just wonderful to finally meet you in person." Rokia doesn't let her smile waver, even when the woman kisses her cheeks, says "I do so hope to see you soon," and turns away.

They get back to the room just in time for the anthem, the Tributes' faces lighting up the artificial Arena sky. Phillips gives her a sharp look but she just looks right back. He can't hide her from it, not completely, and anyway if she doesn't know what's happening she's bound to get into trouble. Not many deaths, today, and the recap spends a few loving minutes on yesterday's whirlwind around the Cornucopia just to remind everyone, apparently. It's quick cuts and flashes and she almost doesn't recognize the kids from Six until the camera pans back on the field of bodies and there, there's the flash of red-orange Six uniforms, blood-splashed but otherwise perfect, clean and new. Before she has a chance to breathe the camera cuts again, and there, the One and Two girls tangled around each other, hands sliding under their grimy uniforms, stained already with blood, and it's rough and wild and now Rokia has to look away, gets up to walk over to the window where the lights are coming on in the streets, a riot of color that refuses to sort itself into anything that makes sense. She hears Phillips shift behind her, getting ready to follow, and she spins back around, takes a breath, and goes back. The rest of it is ordinary, tracking the handful of outliers who managed to escape, the one the Pack hunted down last night, flirtatious glances and stolen kisses between the two girls, banter and rolled eyes from the others. "Blood and sex," Rokia says, dully, when the Capitol seal spins on the screen again. Phillips' head snaps to look at her. "That's what Finnick said," she shrugs. "Last night. I didn't know what he meant." Phillips' eyebrows furrow, he's probably thinking about angles and positioning and it's pointless but if he wants to, let him think they can control something about this.

"I have to be in prep," she says, and he just nods as she heads out.

The party is loud, and wild, and they're flashing clips of the games on the walls, and Rokia's there with a girl who is probably a few years older than she is but acts a lot younger, and they've only just arrived when she slips something under her tongue. "You want?" she asks, head dipped so she can look up at Rokia through ridiculously long lashes. "It'll be fun." Rokia shakes her head, trying for shy, kid from the Districts who's not used to this sort of thing. It's not much of a stretch. The girl giggles and puts her arms over Rokia's shoulders, smiles, and kisses her hard, teeth digging into Rokia's lip till she tastes blood.

The room is huge and packed with people, kids mostly, gyrating to the music with their hands in the air, screaming when the screens show a kill or a kiss. It lasts until the sky is fading grey, and by the time Rokia staggers back into the Training Center it's full daylight. She can't catch her breath, even the steam from the shower won't clear her lungs, even the harshest hottest spray she can stand doesn't leave her feeling clean. She turns off the shower and drags a towel around her, shivering, wet, cold, and she sinks to the smooth tile and stays there until she hears the knock on the door.

"Rokia?" Phillips, sounding scared.

"Yeah," she says, and it's ragged and certainly not reassuring, but it's what she's got.

"Are you--do you need anything?"

"I'm fine, Phillips," she says, hauling herself to her feet.

She pulls on the bathrobe they leave hanging on the door and steps out. Phillips looks as haggard as she feels, and she wants to reassure him but really she needs him out so she can lie down before she falls down. He looks her over, checking for she's not sure what, but he nods. "Get some sleep," he says, resigned.

"Okay," she says, and waits until he's gone before ripping the blankets off the bed and curling up in the smallest corner she can find.

She sleeps restlessly, waking with fragments of dreams evaporating before she can pin them down. Finally she gives up and walks out into the common room, blinking in the sunlight that streams in the windows. Phillips looks up from the papers he's strewn across the table, surprised and concerned and all of the usual caution keeping him sitting way too still. "G'morning" she mumbles, heading into the kitchen to find coffee. He's still sitting there when she comes back, steaming mug warming her hands, and she sits across from him and sips at it.

"Can I get you some breakfast?" It's only sort of a question.

Rokia shrugs. "Guess so." Phillips nods once, gets up, comes back with a plateful of eggs and toast. Rokia eats methodically, not really hungry but she's not Capitol enough to let good food go to waste just because her stomach's apparently not awake yet. She finally swallows the last bite and pushes the plate away. "Has Linsea come by?" she asks. She's sure there's something she's supposed to do today, but she can't keep track of it all.

Phillips nods. "I told her to let you sleep. They have you scheduled for after the recaps tonight."

"And after that?"

Phillips sighs. "After that Linsea said something about a private party."

Rokia nods. "Okay." She's antsy again, for no particular reason, gets up.

"Where are you going?" Phillips asks, sharp.

She turns on him and he shakes his head. "Just curious," he says, and she shoves down the irritation.

Where is she going? Can't stay here, head too scrambled to work, can't sit still. "Gym, I guess," she says, shrugs. "I'll be back."

Phillips looks like he wants to say something, thinks better of it, and she yanks on running shoes and heads out.

It's empty and blessedly silent in the gym. It doesn't take long to find the place where her breath rasps in her ears and her lungs burn and her the rhythm of her feet pounds through her and everything else shuts off. It's just keep moving, one foot in front of the other, until it takes every last bit of concentration she has just to stay upright, and finally it's stop or fall, so she staggers off. She's breathless and sick to her stomach and barely gets to a trash can before her breakfast comes back up.

She's sitting against the wall, breathing hard when Lyme comes in.

She sighs, gets ready to apologize, explain that she's fine really, it's nothing, she just ran too hard too soon after eating. But Lyme doesn't ask, just hands her a bottle of something strange-colored and sits down nearby. Rokia sips at it, it's sweet and kind of gross but soothes her throat. "Sorry," she says, on principle. "I'll get out of your way."

Lyme raises an eyebrow, looks around. "Kid, what makes you think you're in my way?"

It's a fair point. Rokia shrugs.

They sit there in not-exactly comfortable silence until Rokia's heart stops trying to beat out of her chest.

"So," Lyme says, casual like it's perfectly normal to be sitting on the floor in the training center gym, like she talks to crazy outlier girls all the time, "You done, or you wanna hit something."

That makes Rokia laugh, and it's a little hysterical but Lyme just leans back and waits till she's done. "Hit something," she says finally, because she's not ready to go upstairs and be a person again just yet. Lyme scrambles up, holds out a hand and hauls Rokia to her feet.

Lyme pulls the long staves out of one of the cabinets, and Rokia watches and thinks how strange it is to be standing here facing a woman twice her size with odd not-exactly-weapons and learning how to play-fight for fun. Of course, in the list of things that are strange about her current life this hardly even ranks. And it is fun, learning the precise, choreographed motions, feeling the shock up her arms when wood connects with wood. It takes enough concentration that she can't worry about anything else, and she throws herself into it as Lyme speeds up the pace. Finally Rokia stumbles, breathing hard, and Lyme steps back. She's grinning, and Rokia finds herself smiling back. "Good," Lyme says, and claps a hand on Rokia's shoulder. She's absurdly pleased at the compliment, and somewhere in the exhaustion of straining muscles her brain's settled down a bit. Her body seems to belong to her, at least, and when Lyme pulls her hand away, Rokia pokes at a bruise forming on her arm just to notice the ache.

She's supposed to be providing commentary tonight for the recaps, sitting in the studio with Ceasar and Claudius to talk about strategy as if she hadn't always just made it up as she went along, as though she has something useful to say about an Arena that's nothing like her own. The two of them know the Games better than almost anyone, in any case, so there's really not much she can add. The studio's stylists flutter around her when she gets there, fixing invisible flaws in her hair and makeup and telling her where to sit and where to look.

It's mostly shots of the Career Pack on the hunt, a few outliers searching hopelessly for food and water. "We've come to the end of the third day," Caesar says, "and we will begin to see deaths from dehydration for those tributes who have not managed to find water."

Her arena was cold and rainy and she'd managed to find pools of metallic-tasting water in broken drainpipes, but never quite enough to stop the gritty dry feeling in her throat. This arena is hotter and dryer, and the little girl from Five, hiding in the underbrush, isn't moving much anymore. Caesar thinks she won't last much longer. There's a stream, little more than a trickle, running down a cliff face, and the Sevens have made camp there, sharing a meager meal from a silver parachute. "Looking like this may be a quick Games," Claudius says, and turns to Rokia. "Your Games were near the long-term average, I believe."

Rokia smiles as the cameraman signals that they're watching her. "They seemed awfully long while I was in there," she says, "But I'll take your word for it." Claudius and Caesar laugh.

"I'm sure," Caesar says, "Now, you were very sneaky last year, quite the underdog, very exciting, and we are all curious what you think of the contenders so far? See anyone you think could make a splash later?"

Rokia searches for anything to tell them, as though she's actually paid any attention to who's doing what in the Arena. "I guess the pair from Seven look interesting," she says, because at least they've managed to team up, find water, do something beyond just hiding. Caesar runs with it, of course he does, because even if she's not a tribute surviving her mandated three minutes anymore he's still good at filling in the gaps.

When they finish Caesar gives her another blinding smile. "You did well," he says, patting her on the back. "We'll have to bring you back, everyone loves to hear what the Victors have to say about the Arenas, such a unique perspective!"

Rokia's pretty sure he's completely full of shit, but he is a professional. She is too, she reminds herself, smiles back and shakes his hand. "Thanks," she says, "It was my pleasure."

She's whisked away to a party after that, so different from the night before it makes her head spin. This is wood paneling and expensive drinks and fancy food and she's dressed in a gown that falls all the way to the floor so she has to work to keep from tripping on the hem. Serious-looking men in dark suits discuss odds and sponsoring strategies between unintelligible conversations about business and investments and who knows what. Her only job seems to be standing around looking pretty, and she barely bothers pretending to understand what's happening until her client takes her home.

The good thing is she gets home early enough that even after an hour in the gym practicing the forms Lyme taught her she's still falling asleep in actual night, and she wakes up feeling a little less like her brain's been taken apart and reassembled wrong.

Phillips isn't hovering as much either, lets her blink slowly over her coffee for a while before shoving food at her. She dawdles over the oatmeal, pulling the thick binder of hovercraft schematics next to her bowl and flipping through it as she eats. He still sneaks glances when he thinks she's not looking but at least he's not watching with that full-on concern the whole time. She smiles at him when she's finished, stretches her legs under the table and reminds herself to uncurl so she doesn't look so small. "I'm going to go see if Wiress wants to talk steering mechanisms," she says, and hopes she's kept the need for something normal, understandable, solvable, out of her voice. He nods, and he looks pleased even if he's still coiled and tense.

"Sounds good," he says. He doesn't mention whatever else is on her schedule for the day and she doesn't really want to worry about it so she lets it go.

"See you later, Phillips," she says, collects her things and heads downstairs.

Wiress is there, the only one in the apartment for now, and they work for a while, tracing torques and stress points in the hydraulics. It's fine at first, but after a few hours of work Rokia starts losing her way. Finally she sets the datapad on the table and shoves back her chair. "I'm sorry," she says, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "I can't fucking think." She pulls her knees up to her chest and hides her hands in the sleeves of her sweatshirt, worn thin and grey and borrowed years ago from uncle Sal.

Wiress sits back too, looks up at the ceiling and breathes deep. "Understandable," she says. Her jaw tenses as she swallows. Then she gets up, walks into the kitchen. She comes out with cookies and milk, and Rokia smiles despite herself. "Maintenance procedures," Wiress says. "Blood sugar should be maintained within an acceptable range for proper brain function." Rokia uncoils to take a cookie. They're good, chewy and nutty and not too sweet and they settle into Rokia's stomach like they might stay down okay.

"Thanks," Rokia says, looking back at the datapad, warily.

"Leave it for now," Wiress says. "You know you're supposed to sleep sometimes, too." She's looking at Rokia like she's diagnosing problems with a mechanical system, eyes sharp.

Rokia shrugs. "I sleep."

Wiress looks at her for a long minute. "Okay" she says finally, looking away. "Food and sleep are important, if sometimes more complicated than they would appear to be." She takes another cookie. "Don't want you wearing out, Rokia."

Wiress isn't even looking at her, which is good because suddenly there's a lump in Rokia's throat and it's hard to swallow. She blinks fast and takes a deep breath to steady herself. "Yeah," she says, and her voice sounds rough in her own ears. "Thanks."

They finish the food, and Rokia looks back at her datapad, then shakes her head. "I guess I should try to sleep some," she says, reluctantly. But her eyes feel heavy and dry, and more than that she actually feels like she might be able to fall asleep even if it is the middle of the afternoon.

Wiress nods, a smile playing around the corners of her mouth. "Good," she says. "Sleep well, Rokia," and she walks Rokia to the door.

\--

The days start to blur together, a haze of parties and interviews and strange bedrooms and she stops trying to keep track, it's too hard to remember, just goes where she's told. There are fewer wild parties now, but at another official sponsors' event Finnick finds her again. "Eye of the hurricane" he says, and when she looks up at him, confused, he explains about the coastal storms, the strange calm at the center before the wind hits again. It makes sense, the whole city's in a sort of keyed up anticipatory excitement, just waiting for something to happen to set them off again. The Games are everywhere, flashes in the background, favorite moments repeating in strange bedrooms, live carnage or long slow days on screens in the Training Center, the main squares. Rokia goes to a Games-watching party as special guest, sits quietly horrified while people watch children die and eat popcorn, getting drunk and making bets--how many cannons today? Will any of the Career boys get any action, or will the girls keep it all to themselves? Will the Ten girl finish starving to death or will someone kill her first?

When her brain isn't too scrambled she sits with Wiress on the Three floor, studying hovercraft schematics and trying to follow the designs Wiress is sketching in wireframe on her datapad. Some days she sits on the couch on the comfortably quiet Three floor and reads the same page of maintenance instructions over and over and still nobody pushes her, they bring her tea or crackers and leave her be.

She keeps crossing paths with Lyme in the gym, even though her schedule hardly allows for regular times. One day, early morning or late night, Rokia's not quite sure, she's wound up and tense and there's too much awful buzzing under her skin to hold still. They train forms like usual and Rokia pushes and pushes and she's getting better, knows the rhythm by now, and after they've been working for an hour Lyme steps back, looks at her with a sharp grin, and says "Okay, kid, see if you can hit me." Rokia laughs out loud at that, Lyme is twice her size, not to mention training since she was a kid, it's ridiculous. But what the hell, if she's going crazy she might as well have some fun while she's at it. She's awkward, uncertain, and doesn't come anywhere close to landing a hit on Lyme, but it doesn't actually matter, Lyme just blocks and lets her keep trying until she starts tripping over her own feet and breathing hard, then steps away and calls a stop.

They sit, afterwards, while Lyme shows Rokia how to stretch her shoulders so they won't be so sore later, and when Rokia stands up again she has to reach for the wall while her vision goes grey and her head spins. "Woah, there," Lyme says, and she grips Rokia's arm, steadying her. Rokia blinks fast until her head clears, and Lyme lets her go. Her mouth tightens to a thin line and her eyes flick up and down, assessing. "You've dropped weight," she says, and Rokia wraps her arms around herself. It's not accusing though, like the prep team's incessant comments on one way or another she's not up to standard.

Rokia shrugs. "Maybe," she says. "Why's it matter?"

Lyme raises an eyebrow. "Because you just about passed out from standing up." Rokia just shrugs again. "Sit back down," Lyme says, in a voice that has Rokia's legs obeying before she's actually given them permission. Lyme walks away, shaking her head a little, comes back with something from one of the machines. "Drink this," she says. Rokia takes a sip. It's chalky and unappetizing, and she must have made a face because Lyme smiles again. "It's not fancy," she says. "But it's good for you. Can't train if you don't eat, kid."

"What am I training for, anyway?" Rokia asks, but she keeps drinking. "No more arenas to be ready for."

Lyme shrugs, a quick lift of one shoulder. "For fun," she says, like it's just that easy. "C'mon, you," she says, once Rokia's finished, holding out a hand to haul Rokia to her feet. Her vision still swims a little, and Lyme doesn't let go of her arm until she's taken a deep breath and is steady on her feet. Rokia would be embarrassed, would cover it if it was Phillips, worrying and asking if she was okay. But Lyme just waits till she's ready, follows her into the elevator, punches the button for the Two floor and nods to Rokia when she's getting off. "You did good today," she says, and Rokia can't help but smile.

"Thanks," she says, as the doors close.

Phillips wakes her up one morning, calling her name from the doorway. "What?" she asks, once she catches her breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, and he looks it, "but Caesar Flickerman wants you in the studio, he thinks something's going to happen today and he wants you to comment."

Rokia groans, still not quite awake, flops onto her back to stare at the ceiling. "When?"

"Soon as you can, your stylist is here now."

"Shit." She looks at the clock on the wall. "It's seven in the morning, Phillips," and she sounds like a whiny Capitol brat and she hates herself for it, but lately she's more likely to see this time of morning as she's heading for bed. She didn't see the time when she went to sleep but it can't have been more than a couple hours ago.

"I'm sorry," he says again, still standing in the doorway, waiting for her to get out of bed.

"Okay," she says, taking a deep breath, "I'm coming."

Licina looks just as unhappy to be awake as she is, and he works quickly, rough, braiding her hair with the thin silver wire he's told her he's making a theme for her this Games, short skirts and high heels always since she's really far too short otherwise, makeup and complaints about the calluses on her hands, the alterations he has to make, and can't she take better care not to come back with bruises, there's no time for Remake so he'll just make do with concealer. Rokia's used to tuning it out by now, and she's about to head out the door when Phillips puts a glass in her hand. It's the same crap Lyme fed her the other day.

"What's this?" She asks, and he looks down for a second, almost like he's embarrassed.

"Lyme came to talk to me," he says. "Said this might help."

Rokia raises an eyebrow. "Did she." Phillips is still standing there, watching her, and the easiest thing to do is to drink the whatever it is so she does.

"See you when you get back," he says, and Rokia nods.

"Bye Phillips," she says, and heads down to the car.

The studio is bustling even at this ungodly-for-the-Capitol hour. "Oh, perfect," someone says when she comes in, and the stylists fuss over her for half a minute before sending her into the studio. Caesar and Claudius are watching the screens intently, whispering to each other and pointing, and they turn when she comes in. Caesar flashes his trademark smile and tells her to sit.

She looks at the screen and he points out the trap the Sevens have built, set to drop someone off the side of the cliff to where the girl is waiting with a selection of rocks. The Seven boy is out making noise, and the Careers are hunting nearby. It's easy to see how it will play out. The microphones and cameras go on, and Caesar turns to Rokia. "Well," he says, "it looks like someone's taking a page out of your book, setting traps, hiding places, does it bring back memories?"

Rokia freezes for a second but she has a job to do and imagining the whistle of the Four Boy's spear as she ducked past it is not going to help her do it. "Well Caesar," she says, "as you know my Arena was quite different, but yes, I suppose there are some similarities."

He smiles again, nudges her with his elbow, leans close, conspiratorial. "So in your expert opinion, is this a good strategy at this point in the Game? If I recall you saved your traps until quite near the end." It's a hint if she wants to take it, and she's grateful for it.

"It's dangerous taking on the whole Career Pack at once," she says, and of course it's obvious to Caesar but if they want her to be the one saying it she will. "They'll have to get out of there fast."

"Indeed," Caesar says, serious, and the cameras cut back to the Arena, where the pack is closing in on the Seven boy. Four Girl is out in front, and Claudius speculates she's jealous of the attention the other girls have gotten. She sees Seven boy and takes off after him, the others following close behind. She sees the trap just as the boy dodges around a seemingly innocuous piece of ground, but it's too late, she falls, and Seven girl flings fist-sized rocks into her head until it's a mess of red and white.

The Sevens run, after that, but before long they both go down, looking up at the ring of faces surrounding them. The One boy flashes a wild, toothy grin, bloody from where the Seven boy landed a punch that split his lip. Four Boy is shaking, furious, and he's the first to step up, kicks the boy hard in the side.

Caesar clicks his teeth and turns to Rokia. "Well, as you said, dangerous to take on all six Careers at once." Rokia blinks and tears her eyes away from the screen to look at Caesar. Caesar whose smile tells everyone it's just a game, it's not really real children getting the shit beat out of them before they're killed, it's all in good fun. She swallows bile, smooths the scowl off her face.

"Yes, Caesar," she says, and her voice doesn't shake even though her hands do. "Unfortunately for them it looks like the gamble didn't pay off."

That gets another serious nod, and then Caesar turns towards the camera. "And speaking of odds, let's check in with the latest from the betting office."

He looks back to her, speaks in an ordinary voice, or as close as Caesar Flickerman has to one, "Thank you, Rokia, that was just fabulous, we won't take more of your time." Rokia gets up, looking away from the monitors that show the clearing where the One Boy is taking a turn, hauling the girl to her feet and belting her across the face. Two girl is spinning a broken piece of metal around in her fingers, looking bored.

Rokia escapes to the lobby where Linsea is waiting for her. "Well wasn't that exciting!" She chirps, "I got here just as you were going on, you were very good, dear, just a little slow sometimes but we can't expect you to keep up with the experts your very first year, now, can we?" Rokia just looks at her, suddenly out of things to say. "Come on, dear, into the car," and Linsea herds her out the door, past a crowd asking for autographs to where the driver is waiting.

"Where are we going?" Rokia asks, and it comes out flat but Linsea doesn't seem to notice.

"Quick stop for you to change, then the Transportation Minister has invited you to a private viewing party. We'll be a bit late, but I phoned ahead to explain and I'm sure he'll understand."

It's a whirlwind rush and then they're back on the road, and Linsea ushers her into the party and acts flattered when they ask her to stay. It's not long past noon but the drinks have been going around for a while and the laughter is sliding and vicious. "I bet they make it last till the anthem," says a boy with blond curls, lounging sideways in a chair with a glass in his hand. "They look pretty pissed, and you know those boys have to be getting tense." He looks up, sees Rokia, and smirks. "Well, look who daddy brought over," he says, sitting up and looking her up and down. "Come sit." He pats the seat next to him, and the kid he's talking to rolls his eyes.

"Come on, man," he whines, pushing lank dark hair out of his eyes, "we were talking about the Games, not your toys." Rokia pulls out her Capitol smile and sits, and the conversation continues around her. "Anyway they'll want the cannons before the anthem, better get the kills counted today for sponsorship."

"No way," the first kid puts an arm around Rokia's waist and leans past her to argue back. "This is entertaining, they'll keep it up as long as they can."

"Okay, but who d'you think gets the kill credit?"

"Oh, they'll let Four Boy take one of 'em, looks good if he's avenging his partner. I say it's Two boy gets the other one, he seems like he'd fuck up and end it too soon."

The cameras are locked on the rocky clearing where the Sevens are bleeding into the scrub. They're not screaming much anymore, but they're still conscious enough to flinch away when the hits come. She hears Phillips' voice, harsh in her ears, warning what could happen if the Careers caught their tributes late in the game.

"You know you're being a total dick," the dark haired boy says, and the blond one squawks in protest, his hand tightening around her hip. "You are, you're all over Rokia and she doesn't even know your name!"

Rokia looks over at him. "Fine, whatever, so I'm a jackass," he says, "it's been a very exciting games." He smirks at Rokia, lip curling. "I can't be expected to be at my best by now."

"Oh for fucks sake. He's Julius, I'm Cassius, you may notice we've been drinking, don't mind him he's always like that."

Rokia laughs as though it was funny. "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you both," she says, and they subside back into snarking each other.

Linsea comes to get her a little later, shows her around, introduces her to the host, and finally claims a late night and an early morning and leaves, leaving Rokia with a kiss on the cheek and an admonition to take care.

It's nearing evening when Cassius yells out "I fucking called it, pay up, jackass." Rokia looks over as a cannon fires, followed shortly by another. She lets out a shaky breath--she's long since lost track of the hours, and most of the other guests have lost interest in the bloody spectacle playing out on the screen. The anthem plays not long after, and the recaps show clips of Rokia in the studio, calmly describing the risk these poor stupid kids took. Julius and Cassius are rapt still, flushed cheeks and wide eyes, and when the recap is over and the guests start leaving, Julius comes up and takes her hand. "Dad said you'd stay," he says, pulling her to his side, possessive fingers digging into her side. She glances over at the minister, and he nods to her before climbing the stairs.

The Games are still on, and Julius guides her to the couch and pulls her into his lap, nuzzling her neck and watching over her shoulder as One and Two girls pull at each others' clothes, kissing harsh and desperate. Rokia has seen the footage on screens in living rooms and nightclubs and bedrooms but this time somehow the desperate gasps from the screen, the hands on her skin flash hot and cold and she wants to scream. It's too much, all at once, and she takes the only escape she has left, turning towards the boy and pressing into a kiss and pushing it all away as he spins to pin her on her back and paws hungrily at her clothes.

She can't stop shaking, in the car back to the Training Center, and there's nothing in her stomach to bring up but it's heaving anyway. Phillips is asleep when she gets in, and she took her shoes off in the elevator so she can slip into her room without making enough noise to wake him up. A quick shower and a change of clothes and she slips back into the elevator and up to the roof, the sky overhead and the street noise and she slides down into the corner and tries not to shake apart.

She's not sure how long it's been when the sound of the door opening startles her alert, the sound of footsteps coming across the roof makes her looks up. Lyme's coming towards her and she pulls in tighter, she's too tired to run away and Lyme's hands are empty but she wouldn't need weapons--and what the fuck, that's stupid, this isn't the Arena and it isn't a back alley in Six and it isn't even a Capitol bedroom where she's not allowed to fight back when they pin her down. It's nothing dangerous, not really, nothing to be scared of, but Lyme's a Victor and a Two and it isn't the Arena now and Rokia wasn't born yet when Lyme won her Games, but everyone knows the Twos are the best fighters when it comes down to it and she's glad she never had to fight one really. And all that play fighting they do, Lyme never says it but it's training for how to hack someone to pieces with a sword, and maybe it's better they know that, better a quick ending than those Seven kids, screaming and then crying and then nothing and nothing and hours until the cannons. Better than Two, Male, bleeding out into the mud and looking up at her with desperate eyes that fluttered closed, as though he was just exhausted, when her knife severed the blood vessel in his throat, blood pulsing hot over her hands until it slowed and stopped. Better than spinning, knife in hand, slashing towards the points Uncle Sal had pointed out one afternoon behind the shop for only if she really had to stop someone fast, dropping that girl from Nine and running before she even stopped to think about what she was doing. That cannon only came hours later and she's just as bad as any of them, isn't she, stupid and cruel, and of course she lets them do whatever they want to her, she deserves it, there are four kids who don't get to go home to their families because of her and if this is the price for keeping hers safe than so be it.

And this whole time Lyme's been moving closer until she stops, well out of reach, and sits, looks out towards the city. "So," she says, soft, easy. "Saw you come in a while ago, thought you might need some company." Rokia opens her mouth to--what? Not sure of her voice, she closes it again, looks away because she's been staring. The windchimes jangle in the breeze and she realizes the air is cold on her face. When she glances over, Lyme's not looking at her, she's looking up towards the mountains, looming dark behind the lights of the Capitol. "The mountains go all the way to Two, you know," she says, "Always seems wrong looking east to find the mountains instead of west. Turns me around the first day every time, until I get used to it." Rokia follows her gaze out beyond the city lights, to where the sky is just starting to lighten enough that the peaks stand out against it. "They're closer in Two," Lyme continues, "Don't know if you remember but the Village is right up in the mountains." Lyme slants a quick glance toward Rokia. "Guess there aren't mountains in Six, anyway." Rokia stirs a little.

"Up North," she says, and her voice sounds harsh in her ears but she swallows and keeps going. "Aren't like here, but they call 'em mountains. It's where the ore comes from."

Lyme nods, looks away again. "I only ever saw Six on the Tour," she says, "Just the city."

"Yeah," Rokia says. Her throat's tight. "Safiatou was from up there," she says, and suddenly there are tears running down her face because it's real, all of it, and there's a family up in the north country that's been mourning for going on two weeks while she goes to parties and laughs on television and Caesar Flickerman's smile might be fake but all those kids are real and so, somehow, are the people drinking and eating and betting on when they will die. She's been trying so hard to make it not-real because--well. Because now she's crying, messy sobs that shake her whole body.

Lyme shifts closer, and her voice is kind when she says, "C'mere, kiddo," and reaches out an arm that Rokia slides under because she's too tired to be either scared or strong. Lyme just holds her, rubbing a hand over her back while she cries. It takes a long time before Rokia manages to stop enough to realize she's gotten snot all over Lyme's shirt and that this whole situation is pretty much absurd. She shifts to sit up, and Lyme's arm stays heavy around her shoulders and she's glad of that, but for fuck's sake.

"Sorry," she says, still sniffling and she must look pretty pathetic, because Lyme just glances down and shakes her head. They sit like that for a while as Rokia catches her breath, and she's wrung out and exhausted like she just ran halfway across the city, and finally she gives up and leans into Lyme's side as her eyes start to slide closed.

She wakes up to the sun in her eyes, fingers combing through her hair, and Rokia sighs, contented, turns to bury her face into--wait. She tenses, moves to sit. "Woah there, kiddo, you're okay, we're at the training center."

Lyme. The Capitol, the Games, right. And oh, fuck, she was crying all over Lyme, wasn't she, and then she just passed out with her head in Lyme's lap and instead of waking her up Lyme let her sleep. "I'm sorry," she blurts out, sitting up. "I didn't mean to bother you I just--"

"Hey, kiddo, it's okay," Lyme says, dropping her arm around Rokia's shoulders, and Rokia leans toward her, lets her head drop into Lyme's side, and she didn't even mean to, she must still be half asleep, but it feels good when Lyme brings her arms up to hold Rokia close for a minute. "It's fine, Rokia, you aren't bothering me."

They stay that way until Rokia feels herself sliding towards sleep again and she's not going to pass out on Lyme again so she shifts and Lyme lets go. "I should go downstairs," she says, pressing fingers into her eyes.

"Okay," Lyme says, and hauls herself to her feet. "Come on then," she says, reaching out a hand. Rokia gets up slowly, she's learned her lesson by now about moving too fast, but still she's unsteady. Lyme keeps a hand on her back, guiding and grounding, until the elevator opens on the Six floor.

"Thank you," Rokia says, and it's not really enough, but Lyme nods.

"No problem, kid," she says, and a corner of her mouth twists up. "Sleep now, okay?"

Rokia nods. "Yeah."

Phillips is waiting in the common room, looking worried and halfway to furious, and Rokia was struggling to keep her eyes open but now she's alert. "What is it?" She asks, glancing around.

"Where were you?" He's trying not to be angry but it's there, in his shoulders, in the way his hands twitch, in the jump of a muscle in his jaw.

"I was on the roof," she says, fisting her hands in her sweatshirt and looking at the floor. "I fell asleep, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry."

Phillips face goes strange when she glances back up. "Rokia, it's okay," he says, puzzled. "I was just worried, I didn't know where you went." Rokia nods, swallows. "Do you want to eat something?"

She shakes her head. "No it's okay I'm not hungry."

"Okay," Phillips still sounds confused. "You want to sleep some more? It's still early, nothing scheduled for a few hours."

Rokia nods. Maybe, now she's mixed up and scared but she was sleepy, a minute ago in the elevator. "Yeah, I'm going to sleep I think," she says, and Phillips nods.

"Okay, that's good," Phillips says. "Sleep well, Rokia."

Rokia runs her fingers over the soft sheets. It's stupid and strange and wrong and exposed, this bed. She curls into the corner again instead and stares at the wall for a while until she falls asleep.

She wakes up to Phillips, calling to her from the doorway like usual, and her brain still feels shaken up like the can of loose bolts in the shop, mismatched pieces fitting nowhere.

"Rokia, Linsea's here," Phillips says. "She says she needs to talk to you."

Rokia wants to stay where she is, hidden and quiet and wrapped up warm in blankets, but too bad. "Yeah," she says, while she tries to get her brain to connect properly to her mouth. "Tell her I'm coming."

She splashes cold water on her face, tugs at her hair, and goes out. Phillips hands her a glass of Lyme's concoction and she can smell the coffee brewing.

Linsea beams, wide and false. "You were great with Caesar yesterday, Rokia, everyone was just so impressed." Rokia raises an eyebrow. How anyone could be impressed by that is beyond her. "They think we're approaching the endgame," she says, serious and self important. "The Career Pack split early this morning, and the One, Two and Four boys are already out. They may want you starting tomorrow, Caesar said it depends on the angles. And there's a very prestigious viewing party tonight, very influential sponsors, they want you there in time for the recap."

It takes a second to process. "Oh." Rokia says, "okay." It comes out flat and Linsea gives her a worried look.

"Come now, it's very exciting, you can't be so jaded already."

"Sorry, Linsea," Rokia says. "I guess I'm just tired."

Linsea's expression changes like she's flipped a switch. "Oh you poor dear, of course you are! Well, I have just the thing!" She snatches up her purse, flips open the clasp and ruffles though it before coming up with a packet of small red pills.

"Absolutely not." Phillips voice rumbles from behind her.

"Oh, Phillips," Linsea giggles. "You are so old fashioned. Everyone uses these at Games time!"

When Rokia looks back at him his face is thunderous. "She's seventeen, Linsea, you are not getting her hooked on amphetamines before she's legally old enough to drink."

Linsea flushes. "Well I never," she says. "She's not a child Phillips, she's a Victor, with a very busy schedule, it's okay to have a little help managing it."

"No." They're standing close now, Linsea almost as tall as Phillips in her ridiculous heels, hands on her hips, and Phillips has his hands balled into fists and Rokia has never seen him this angry before. She escapes into the kitchen to find her coffee, lets the heat sear her palms through the thin ceramic mug, leans against the wall and watches the clock tick out the seconds.

Phillips comes in later, the coffee's cooled to where she can drink it fast, so she does, as much to avoid seeing his face as because she needs the caffeine to get her brain working. "I'm sorry about that," he says, and he's keeping his voice even if it's because he's working at it. "But you can't start with that stuff, Rokia, I won't let you get caught up in it." Rokia nods. It's a little absurd that they've come to this, silences and apologies, and she hates it but she can't make it better.

Phillips is still looking at her, waiting for an answer, so Rokia shrugs and says, "it's okay Phillips, I get it."

After some eggs and toast, another cup of coffee, and a shower, she feels halfway human, so she takes her things and heads down to the Three floor. All four of them are there today, and when Beetee lets her in, Rokia sees Eibhlin sitting on the floor between Wiress's knees, while Wiress weaves her hair into braids. Eibhlin looks up, wary, and Wiress gives Rokia a small smile. It's Beetee who offers her a cup of the Three tea she's grown used to and offers her a seat. She's trying to bury herself in the hydraulics designs again when Wiress comes over. Eibhlin, hair neatly braided, is curled on the couch next to Lumina, nose in a book.

"If I'm in the way..." Rokia starts, trails off.

Wiress gives her a sad half smile. "You're not," she says, simply, "now, where were we with trying to make this more responsive?" The design is mostly thanks to Wiress, an electronic boost to what remains a hydraulic system, so pilots used to the small craft won't have as much to get used to. It's all Rokia can do to keep up, much less contribute, but Wiress doesn't seem to mind. She explains, drawing out circuit diagrams on Rokia's copy of the schematics, demonstrating on the wireframe model she's built on her datapad, and Rokia leans close and forces herself to concentrate.

She wants to stay there forever but it's not long until Phillips calls down to say she's needed in prep. Rokia sighs and collects her things, exhausted, frustrated tears threatening to spill out. She swallows hard, and Wiress hesitates, reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder. "Take care, Rokia," she says, and Rokia just nods and turns to go, not trusting herself to speak.

The party is dizzying, excitement and bloodlust an almost tangible thing in the room. Everyone's talking about the odds and who's left and who can bring it home. "I've got money on the One girl," Rokia's client says, leering. He laughs when the Two girl swings her mace and takes out the boy from One, pulls Rokia close when the One girl runs away, kisses her as the cannons fire. When the recap ends Caesar is back in the studio with Mags and the Four boy's mentor, a man named Tyde who towers over her but somehow still seems deferential. "Son of a gun," someone says, turning up the volume. "I thought she was done for sure." Mags speaks slowly, working to make herself understood even though her mouth twists the words, and Tyde sometimes repeats things if it isn't clear. Even Caesar seems a little awed by her, he's quieter than Rokia's ever seen him. Rokia stays as long as she can, watching this woman who somehow even through the television radiates calm.

Linsea wakes her up early the next morning and she sits in the back room of Caesar's studio, watching with a handful of Victors from various districts. Caesar calls her once, early in the day while Two girl is hunting the girl from Eight. When it's clear the showdown will be One against Two, someone tells her she can go, and Linsea appears to hustle her off, twittering about how she's glad Rokia won't be stuck in the studio for the final.

Instead she's in an open square, screens on every side, surrounded by Capitol strangers who press close and scream when the anthem plays, haunting in a minor key, and both girls collect their weapons to head towards the Cornucopia. Linsea giggles, high-pitched and nervous, as the stream of autograph-seekers trails off and everyone watches the screens, transfixed. It's bloody and brutal and all Rokia can think as she watches the girls slide in the mud is that if this had been her Arena she would be dead. When the girl from Two screams and swings her weapon, when the One girl falls to the ground, when the hovercraft descends fast as the trumpets blare and the Two girl collapses onto the ramp while the One girl's body lies broken, wide eyes staring, when the fireworks erupt from behind the screens and the crowd, gone silent as the final blows landed, screams its excitement--all Rokia can think through the screaming static in her head is that she should be dead. That it's a ridiculous fluke, an obvious error, that she's standing here now.

When Linsea shrieks and leans down to kiss Rokia's cheek, Rokia flinches back so violently that Linsea stumbles and almost falls. "Rokia!" she gasps, shocked. "What's going on?"

Rokia stares at her for long seconds before she can bring herself to respond. "Sorry," she manages, and it comes out strangled and gasping. "I guess I…" she pauses, trying to think. "I got caught up in the moment."

Linsea pats her shoulder and Rokia holds very, very still. "Oh, dear, of course!" Linsea says, and Rokia inhales, exhales, and smiles as people keep coming up to talk to her, to have her sign things, to shake her hand and tell her where they were when she won, and it's hours until the square starts to empty and Rokia can make her way back to the Training Center.

Phillips is waiting for her. "You saw," he says, his tired, sad eyes on hers.

"Yeah," she says, and shivers. He gets a blanket and she wraps it around herself, sits next to him on the couch, knees pulled in to her chest.

"I wouldn't have made it," she says, after a while. "I shouldn't be here."

"You damn well should," Phillips says, fierce, and Rokia startles. "You fought hard to be here, you're still fighting, Rokia, you--" he stops, takes a breath. "Don't start with the what ifs," he says, finally. "Nothing good ever came from it."

Rokia nods. They sit in silence for a while. Finally Phillips stirs. "Can I get you something?" Rokia shakes her head. "You want to sleep?" She blinks. Might as well try, or at least pretend.

"Yeah okay," she says, getting up and heading for her room.

She's not sure if she's slept, but it's morning when Phillips calls her name. "They're asking for you," he says, and Rokia drags herself out of bed.

Linsea's there, excited and impossibly energetic, and she's back to the studio where they're interviewing Victors about their impressions of the Games. Phillips comes along for once, and he's interviewed separately before they bring her in, she barely remembers what she's supposed to say about the excitement of her first Games as a Victor, the disappointment of losing tributes what seems like ages ago, the opportunities she's gotten in the Capitol, the strategies she's never known anything about.

The official closing won't be for a while: not until they can stabilize Petra, which the doctors say will take some time, but the Capitol isn't waiting. Rokia follows while Linsea takes her to change clothes and out to a mansion where lights and music and people are spilling out of the doors, where Linsea introduces her to a man named Fabricius who is apparently the organizer of the biggest betting and sponsorship ring in the Capitol. He's expansive in every way, cornering one person after another with loud laughs and bear hugs and slaps on the back, hands heavy with rings, drinking and eating and watching the clips they're playing with an arm around Rokia's waist and eyes that flash away from the screens to watch her hungrily. He pulls away from her to take calls, growls into the phone about odds and return on investment, and when he finally pulls her into a quiet room he looks her up and down with the same judgmental gaze he used to watch the tributes on the screen.

When she collects herself to leave, he slips something into her hand, pats her on the cheek. "Sweetheart, you were an excellent investment," he says, "Damn if I didn't call that one right." When she opens her hand in the car there's a cluster of sparkling stones on a thin chain, flashing in the streetlights.

She throws it on the table in her room, shakes in the shower, and storms out finally to where Phillips is sitting, as usual, in the common room. "You have a list of my sponsors?"

Phillips looks startled. "I could get one, why?"

Rokia looks at him, not sure what to say, and she sees him think for a second before figuring it out on his own. "I didn't--Rokia, I would never--that wasn't part of the deal."

Rokia shrugs. It doesn't matter what Phillips thought the deal was, it probably never did. "Can I just have it?"

Phillips looks at her. "I don't know if that's a good idea," he says, hesitant.

"Dammit, Phillips," she says, and she's about to cry out of sheer humiliated frustration when he gives in. He sighs, goes into his room and comes out with a printed sheet, a bare handful of names and dates and amounts, and she snatches it away from him and ducks back into her room.

They're familiar names, she thinks, but Capitol names all bleed together so she gets her datapad, pulls up the schedule Linsea's been nagging her to use for months. They're all there, the one after the Victory Tour who held her hands in his and told her he'd show her exactly what to do, the one who pinned her shoulders down so she couldn't move and left hand-shaped bruises the Remake staff tittered over, the woman who tore at Rokia's skin with her nails and licked the blood off her fingers, Fabricius leaning back and telling her he wants to see what she's learned.

She takes a breath, shaking and sick, pulls on running shoes and walks out. Phillips is waiting, of course he is. "Rokia--" he starts, and she spins to face him.

"Don't," she says, and it's not his fault and he did what he had to do and somewhere she knows that's the truth but right now she can't look at him without thinking about the price she didn't know she was paying.

She keeps moving because she has to, straight past him and down the stairs because the elevator is too closed in and she'd have to stand still, and even on the treadmill she can't get away from it, and she'd run on the street but someone would want to talk to her, would ask questions or make her stop. Here she runs until she can't and then she walks until she catches her breath enough to run again, until every step shoots pain, until her vision tunnels in and her heartbeat pounds in her chest and behind her eyes and she still wants to scream.

"Hey," the voice is sharp and commanding and she stops, slides off the treadmill and turns to see Lyme, standing in the doorway with her arms crossed over her chest.

"What?" Rokia gasps out, voice harsh between breaths.

Lyme walks towards her. "You can't run back to Six, sorry kiddo."

Rokia just glares. Her fingers find the hem of her shirt, pull and twist the fabric that's soft and sweat-damp and there is still something buzzing under her skin and she can't make it stop.

Lyme's standing close now, watching, assessing. Rokia wants to curl up and cry on her again, but that's stupid so she turns away, walks over to find a bottle of water. "How'd you know where I was?" she asks.

"Phillips called me," Lyme says, running a hand through her hair. Rokia sips at her water and tries to calm down, and when she really looks, Lyme is tired and worried and Rokia's sure she has a hundred better things to do than this.

"He shouldn't have bothered you, I'm fine."

Lyme snorts. "Sure you are," she says, and Rokia looks down. "You wanna tell me what's up?" Rokia shakes her head, quick, and Lyme sighs. "Okay, sit."

Rokia does, lets her head knock back against the wall. "Here." Lyme hands her a glass of the usual sludge. Rokia sips at it, obedient as always.

The silence stretches out until Rokia finally breaks it. "What's going to happen to her?" she asks. It's not really what's bothering her but it's the question she can get out.

Lyme lets a breath hiss through her teeth, doesn't ask who Rokia's talking about. "Don't know," she says. "Doctors say she'll probably never walk again."

Rokia shudders, even though that wasn't exactly what she meant. But maybe it's an answer, anyway. Surely nobody would make a girl who can't walk do Rokia's job. She would have believed that, a month ago, but today she's not sure.

She's not sure of anything, really, not sure what it is that's got her jumping out of her skin, it's not like she didn't know she was just another piece of the Games machine, not like she didn't know she won out of luck as much as anything, not like any of it is new, she just can't get her head straight. She can't but she has to, because it'll be morning soon if it isn't already and there's sure to be someplace she has to go.

Lyme waits until she's finished drinking. "Wanna hit something?" she asks, and Rokia is so tired she isn't sure she can move, but yes, yes she does.

It's slow and sloppy and she ought to be embarrassed but when Lyme calls a stop Rokia can't even care that she's about to fall over or that every part of her body hurts, because that was already true and at least now she's past the point of caring about it. She's stumbling like she's drunk, though, and when Lyme slings an arm around her shoulders she can at least let herself be glad for the support.

Lyme actually walks her to her room, waits until she's curled into the bed before she says goodnight and walks out.

\--

When Linsea finally says they've scheduled the closing ceremonies, Phillips looks relieved. Even more so when she complains about Petra's mentor fussing about the events schedule. "Typical overprotective Twos," she grouses. "They're just no fun, I mean really." Phillips actually rolls his eyes at that, and it's been so long since he reacted to anything Linsea says with more than cold fury or bitter resignation that Rokia's startled into a smile. She guesses she's glad, too, ready to get away from all of this but she can't even think about home beyond a sort of bafflement that her house in Six and the Capitol can exist in the same world.

And anyway, in practice what it means is that events have been compressed into a few short days of whirlwind activity, everyone in the Capitol getting a last hurrah before the Games end and they go back to doing whatever it is they do when they don't have this for entertainment.

It means at least that Rokia doesn't have time to think about anything, and when Linsea brings her to meet with someone from Victor Affairs she can nod and smile and practice the photo-op meeting she'll have with this year's Victor without wondering if she'll see Petra at these parties next year, what price she'll be paying for her win.

Rokia sits next to Phillips with the other mentors as Petra talks to Caesar, watches the recap without really seeing. The applause fades to a dull buzzing in her ears and Caesar calls her up to congratulate this year's Victor.

"So, Rokia," Caesar says, smiling, "no jealousy, passing on the torch to a new Victor?"

Rokia glances over at Petra, who's sitting ramrod-straight, her eyes glassy and pupils drawn down to points. It could be the lights, but Rokia knows morphling when it's staring at her. Jealousy? It's a bizarre idea. Who would want to be a Victor?

But what she says, with a practiced smile, is, "Well, you know, I've had my fun, let someone else have a turn." Caesar laughs, and Petra gets to her feet carefully. They shake hands while the cameras flash, and Rokia walks away so the President can give Petra her crown.

Even if their Victor puts in only a token appearance, the party that night goes on until dawn, and Rokia doesn't get back until mid-morning. Nobody needs her, not today, so she goes to the Three floor to say goodbye. They're packing up, books and tools and what Wiress will refuse to admit are toys, and Wiress gives her a quick hug before stepping away. "Keep in touch," she says, quiet, and Rokia nods.

"Sorry I wasn't more helpful," she says, because she was supposed to be working, Wiress asked for her help and she can't pretend she was anything like useful.

Wiress shakes her head. "Don't worry about it, Rokia," she says, "You did fine." Rokia nods, embarrassed, waves to Beetee and Eibhlin and Lumina and heads for the door.

She's dozing on the couch when Lyme calls. "I'm leaving with Brutus and Petra in a couple hours," she says. "You wanna go one last round?"

"Yes," Rokia says, simply, and heads for the gym.

It's still strange if she thinks too hard about it, but Rokia's good at not thinking too hard about anything, just lets it feel good to spar with Lyme while she has the chance. This, well, this she'll miss. When they wind down Lyme hugs her close, just for a second, and tousles her hair, and says "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Rokia nods. "I will," she says, and they stand close and comfortable in the elevator until Lyme gets off at the Two floor.

Finally it's just her and Phillips, standing in the empty, echoing rooms. The few things she brought from home are packed into her duffel, one of the Avoxes already took it to the car. Phillips' mouth twists in a half smile. "Ready to go home?"

Home. When she lets herself think about it, finally, about sleeping in her own bed and sitting on the floor with Allie and Kadi playing trains, about Sal's shop and tools in her hands, it threatens to choke her. Phillips sees it, shakes his head. "Come on," he says, turning toward the door, careful like always to leave enough space not to startle her. She follows, to the car, to the train. Gets to her room, and she should go see which crew's on today, say hello if it's Joe and his guys, but she's rooted to the ground. Mandatory television, and she's been on it for weeks and she never once thought what people would think back in Six. Now she does. Now she thinks about what it must look like, as though two dead children couldn't matter less, as though she's nothing but another Capitol whore, dressed up and parading across the screen as though any of it fucking mattered. Shudders to think what the girls have seen, what Aunt Magda will have told them, what Uncle Sal thinks of the endless parties and useless nonsense when he's always liked people who pull their weight. How is she supposed to go back, now?

She's curled on the seat by the window, watching the mountains disappear into the dusk in the west when Phillips knocks, comes in. He sees her face and crosses the room, long strides eating up the space. "Rokia, what is it?" he asks, alarmed.

She doesn't know where to start. "I don't know how to go home," she says, finally.

Phillips steps up next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder, hesitant at first but then heavy, comforting somehow, like she's not alone. "It'll be okay," he says, and he's never said that, not once since they left Six nearly a month ago, so if he's saying it now than maybe it's for real. She looks up at him, and he's watching her, serious. "Not saying it'll be easy," he says, "But you'll do fine."

They get in late at night, Phillips calls a car to take them home. Her house is dusty, shut-up and stuffy, but it's familiar. She walks through the rooms, dazed, amazed that everything's just where she left it. Phillips moves to leave and he must want to sleep in his own bed, too, but the house is huge and echoing and empty and Rokia bites her lip and asks him to stay.

"Of course," he says, quick, before Rokia has time to feel guilty for asking. He smiles, tired but real for the first time in a long time. "We can get the girls in the morning."

Rokia's lying in bed, staring at the ceiling when she hears it, the wail of a train whistle, the screech of brakes just on the edge of hearing, and she sighs. Now she's home.

She wakes up when Phillips opens the door to what was supposed to be her Mom's room, slips out into the hallway, and he's trying to be quiet but she's alert anyway. He looks around, guilty, when she opens the door. "Everything okay?" she asks, and Phillips sighs. "Why are you sneaking out?" Rokia asks, suddenly suspicious.

"Nothing, I--" Phillips stops, and his shoulders slump. "I need to see to the coffins."

Rokia freezes, forces herself to take a deep breath, to nod, and in a second it's all swirling around in her head again, everything she thought she'd left behind. "Let me get dressed," she says, and turns back to her room. Phillips starts to say something but doesn't quite get the words out before she's pulled the door shut behind her. She hasn't picked out her own clothes in a month, stares blankly at the things in her closet before sighing and pulling on somber black pants and shirt. Black for a funeral, right? And it's all too fancy but it's not dresses and not Capitol so it'll have to do.

Phillips watches her as she comes out. There's a truck waiting downstairs, driver tapping impatiently, and he drives them to the station where the Peacekeepers check their identification before letting them load one of the coffins into the back. Just one.

Just one, because Safiatou's family is somewhere up north, the mother whose name Rokia never knew would've gone back after the Reaping and retrieving coffins apparently doesn't count as essential travel.

"They sent it by train," Phillips says, soft. "Should be there by now."

There's tears pricking behind Rokia's eyes and her limbs feel like they're made of lead as she walks back to sit in the car.

When they get to Ryan's house the windows are closed, shades drawn, quiet. Phillips knocks on the door and Rokia forces herself to stand straight instead of hiding behind him. The knock echoes, and it's a long time before the door is pulled open. Rokia saw Ryan's father for all of a minute in the Justice Building but she recognizes him. His eyes narrow when he sees them.

"I'm sorry about your boy," Phillips says, simply.

The man glowers at both of them, steps outside. "That him?" he jerks his chin toward the pine box in the back of the truck.

"Yes." Phillips hands the man a paper sack. "His things."

"Fine," the man says, "Now give me my boy and get out."

Rokia would feel better if he'd been angry, but his voice is flat and even the glare he shoots her way doesn't have any heat in it. She searches for something to say, but there's nothing, nothing about this boy she could tell his father, nothing to make it better. So she stays quiet, while the driver helps carry the box into the house, next to Phillips who's watching with his hands clenched to fists at his side.

They get back into the car and the driver turns to Phillips and asks where they're going next. Phillips twists to ask Rokia. "Should we go get your girls?"

Rokia's breath catches. "Yes," she says, barely more than a whisper.

They pull up outside the apartment where Magda and Salif moved when Magda decided their place above the shop was too small, too noisy, not good enough. Rokia climbs the steps with a mixture of anticipation and dread, and knocks on the door.

Magda pulls it open against the chain and looks out, suspicious. When she sees Rokia and Phillips she puts on a smile and opens the door wide. "Come in!" she says, turning toward Phillips. "I'm so pleased to finally meet you--" She stops when Allie and Kadi peer around the corner into the sitting room, and Rokia barely has time to brace herself before Kadi's jumping up to wrap her arms around Rokia's waist and clinging until Rokia manages to lift her to rest on her hip. Allie follows a little slower, a little careful, but she presses up against Rokia's side and stays close. Phillips is watching with a half-smile playing around his mouth but Magda shakes her head, laughs a little, ruefully. "Well, so much for manners," she says. "Kadi, you'll ruin your sister's nice clothes pulling like that." Rokia could care less about the clothes but she needs her aunt's good will so she says nothing. "Can I get you something?" Magda asks, looking at Phillips, and Rokia knows she should be nice, should stay for tea or whatever Magda wants to do to show off but she just wants to take the girls home. Phillips glances over at her but she says nothing.

"Thank you ma'am," Phillips says, apologetic, "But we really ought to get these girls back."

Magda nods, disappointed. "Well, I have their things packed," she says, and Phillips follows her back toward the bedrooms.

"Hi Rokia," Kadi whispers into her neck. "I'm glad you're back."


	3. Postscript

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I initially planned this story to be alternating POV all the way through, but then Chapter 2 ended up needing to be all Rokia-POV
> 
> This scene, ironically, was the reason I needed to write the 72nd Games in the first place, but it's become a postscript here. (or maybe an interlude? look, I'm an engineer, I don't know about this stuff)

Rokia's disappeared down to the Three floor again, ashen and exhausted and wide-eyed and blank-faced, and Phillips watches her leave and wants to scream. She's his girl, his one miracle in twenty four years, forty seven dead kids and she walked out brilliant and strong and alive, and it's not the Arena that's left her jumping at shadows, cowering away from him, hidden deep inside her own mind where he can't begin to pull her out. Doesn't even know if he should, even if he knew how. 

There's no manual for this, he hasn't felt this out of his depth since he got on the train in 49 with two kids looking to him to save them and Poppy smiling and sleepy eyed and utterly fucking useless. He wasn't much better that year and he's not much better now, when it's his miracle girl slipping away from him with every time she steps out the door. Unlike mentoring, though, he doesn't know who to watch, where to find ideas that lead to plans that help him understand what he has to do. So he's sitting on the couch watching someone's analysis of how the Games are playing in which demographics, trying to bring himself to care because it should be important, he owes next years kids the best information just in case there's some chance it will matter, but it's all just so much noise to him right now. 

It's all noise until Mags shows up to talk about District Four's two tributes, taking a backseat in the coverage to the girls who've turned the whole Games into cheap pornography. Phillips hasn't seen her since her stroke. Her face has changed, lax on one side, and she's struggling a little to make herself understood, but she's there, straight backed and head high, telling the interviewer that while she's got to let the younger ones take their turn mentoring, she's not too old to come help out. 

Phillips figures it's more about Four's sponsorships being a little thin, pulling Mags in will up the interest and maybe get them some more resources to play with, but he's watching anyway and so will everyone else. Finnick is sitting next to her, attentive enough to seem like he's fussing, fingers just brushing her arm as though he's afraid she'll disappear if he doesn't keep track of her. Phillips doesn't think Finnick really notices, and for someone so used to the cameras that's saying a lot.

Phillips remembers Finnick's games, because everyone does, but he remembers, too, just how much the kid's changed since he walked out, since Snow twisted him into the perfect Capitol plaything, and if Rokia is the latest Victor to be caught up in this filthy game, Finnick is still the model. And Mags is still his mentor, and watching them on the screen something clicks, the veiled hints he's heard from the Fours and once from Beetee after the 70th, the way Mags always watches, never trusting the Capitol to be anything but the pit of vipers it likes to pretend it isn't. He's never thought it was worth thinking about before, too much risk for no reward at all, but that was before he got Rokia out only to lose her anyway.

Now the anger he'd thought he'd gotten over years ago is back, guilt and pain aren't enough for forty-seven dead kids and one who lived only to get chewed up by the people who claim surviving their Game makes you a Victor as though that was something good. No, the guilt is still there and the pain hasn't left but he's furious, too, not the hotheaded frustrated rage of a teenager who's discovered how the world works, but something colder, quieter, that isn't likely to burn out when the Games end. Something has to change. He refuses to allow for a world where Rokia spends twenty-four years sending kids to die, then going out to be fucked by the Capitol's rich and famous. It has to end, and he's got no illusions about what it's likely to cost, but right now at least he does not care.

He sits in the room for a long time, wondering what to do, while Rokia appears, vanishes into prep, leaves again. Finally he scribbles a note and hands it to an Avox. The reply comes quickly, the single word "Yes" and a time tomorrow morning. 

The next morning Rokia's in her room, asleep, and he doesn't like leaving her alone but he damn well hopes she'll sleep at least another hour, so he goes up to the roof, sits on a bench under the windchimes, and waits.

He doesn't have to wait long. Mags moves slowly, but when he gets up to help her she glares at him and waves him away. She sits next to him and turns to look him in the eye. "So," she says, when the silence stretches as he struggles for words. 

Phillips takes a breath, looks at her. "It has to stop," he says, barely above a whisper, and he doesn't know if she heard, but she nods. "It _has_ to," he says, and it catches in his chest when he looks at her. There are some things you don't ask, though, and "how do you send your kid out into this and live with yourself" is one of them. Mags nods as though she understood it anyway, puts her hand on top of his, and sighs. 

"Yes," she says, simply. "And it will."

They sit, silent after that, and Phillips has a thousand questions and doesn't know how to ask any of them, hasn't thought much about what on earth he could actually contribute to a vast criminal conspiracy, but for right now it doesn't seem to matter as much as sitting here looking out over the city and knowing. Knowing that if nothing else, he isn't on his own.


End file.
